Tempting The Fates
by Disastergirl
Summary: Life is going well for General Roy Mustang. A successful career, good friends and a birthday party hosted by the Fuhrer himself. But when you're playing for the highest stakes, danger is never too far away.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story is written as a birthday fic for mebh, whose birthday was last week. Due to exam revision, progress on writing has been painfully slow, and I don't know when I'll be finished so I decided today to post up the first part before it got too far away from her birthday. This may or may not turn out to be a stupid decision, as I have absolutely no idea how much longer the second part is going to be- it could be another 6000+ words or it could be barely 1000, which would be a bit stupid, obviously. Oh well, we shall see. I'll try to get the second part posted up as soon as possible. Thanks to SammyQuill for helping me with my research for this fic- I've tried to be as scientifically accurate as possible. Mebbhy, sorry for the lateness and for splitting the fic, but I hope you like it anyway. Happy (late) birthday. _

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><p>"Remind me, lieutenant. Just why do we have to go through with all this hassle?" Roy asked, descending the stairway to the Great Hall below. Situated at the heart of Central Command, the vast room had held countless hundreds of official functions and events over the centuries: military balls, diplomatic gatherings, government fundraisers. Now, in less than two days time, it would be the site of his thirty-third birthday party. It was all quite difficult to believe.<p>

Riza rolled her eyes; a deliberate gesture, Roy was sure. "You know exactly why, Sir. You're one of the highest ranking generals in the country now, with well known political aspirations. You've started to make a name for yourself with the start of the Ishval restoration project, not to mention the events of the Promised Day, but you're going to have to be more of a public figure if you want to advance any further. This party will be the perfect opportunity to strengthen connections with other high ranking military officials and heads of industry."

"I know, I know." Roy sighed. "I should stop complaining so much. I just wish that expanding my public profile didn't have to intrude so much on my personal life. Can't I just do something connected to my actual job, like take part in some kind of public debate or something? Those sorts of things have become very popular recently, I gather." He shot Riza his most endearing expression, a trademarked look that he had long since learned worked on every single woman except her. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Roy considered the wisdom of such persistent teasing, but he couldn't help it. For so many years he and Riza had lived in fear of the shadows lurking over them, of the danger that even one word spoken carelessly could destroy all that they had worked for. Now, although never completely dispelled, such fears had diminished considerably. They were finally free to act as they wished around each other and it was a privilege that Roy had no intention of forgoing.

"Well... if you wanted to argue the matter with the Fuhrer..." Roy glanced back, surprised at her playful tone. Riza stood two steps above him, a bundle of folders under her arm and a smile on her face. The bright, midday sunlight streamed in from the vast windows behind them, striking her hair in a way that made Roy's breath catch in his throat for the slightest moment. _I am so lucky. _The thought seemed too much like tempting fate but Roy pushed such superstitious worries out of his head. The peace they had worked so hard for was finally in their grasp and he could afford to enjoy it. After all, it was his birthday soon.

"Yes, I suppose it _would_ be rude of me to turn down a free birthday party from the Fuhrer, especially one as extravagant as this. I should be glad Fuhrer Grumman is so eager to help me advance my political career. I mean, it's not as if he has any... ulterior motives for doing so."

Riza laughed. "Now, Sir, I think you're being a bit hard on our country's beloved leader. Most men would be flattered that the Fuhrer wishes them to marry their granddaughter. After all," She moved closer to him, her fingers almost brushing against his arm. This close, Roy could see the mischievous light in her eyes. "I'm sure the poor girl can't be all _that_ ugly."

He was grinning like an idiot, he just _knew_ it. So much for his suave reputation. "No," Roy murmured. "From what I hear, she is really quite beautiful."

Riza opened her mouth to reply but stopped at the sound of someone calling Roy's name. Roy turned to see a young soldier- a private, it looked like from his jacket, or possibly a corporal- striding towards them from across the Great Hall, a brown paper parcel clutched in his hands. "General Mustang! This just arrived for you at the main reception. It's been checked over and we're sure it's safe. It-" The young man reached Roy, now standing at the foot of the stairs, and presented him with the parcel. "It seems to be a gift for you, Sir." The soldier seemed out of breath and Roy felt both touched and faintly amused that the young private would tire himself out over something so minor for him. He took the package, dismissing the man, who seemed grateful to be allowed to leave the slightly intimidating presence of someone so famous and high ranking. Roy turned the parcel around in his hands, inspecting it. It was wrapped messily; the paper secured with thick brown string and was surprisingly heavy. He felt confused for a moment- the parcel was clearly a personal gift, so why had it been delivered to Central Headquarters, not to his home? Then Roy noticed the distinctive, scrawled handwriting on the front of the present and everything became clear. Perhaps this was not so minor, after all.

"Lieutenant, come and have a look at this." Riza hurried to his side, glancing up at his face expectantly. "Fullmetal seems to have sent me a birthday present. All the way from Creta, it seems by the post stamps."

"That's... nice of him," Riza offered cautiously. He could tell by the look on her face that she too was thinking back to the typical 'birthday presents' that Ed had given Roy during the years under his command. Of course, things were different now. Edward was older, almost an adult, and, well, they had been through a lot together. Still, it was with mild trepidation that Roy opened his present, peeling back the layers of brown paper to reveal... a book. He was almost disappointed for a while before he turned the volume over, shifting slightly so Riza could look at it too. The book had a weathered appearance, clearly handled by many people before him, but it was bound in the highest quality leather and the pages were still crisp and unmarked. An image of a salamander was outlined in gold on the front cover, the fine lines slightly raised, as were the letters of the title- which was in Cretan. Roy flicked through the first few pages. It was as he expected: not only was the book beautifully illustrated, not a word of it was written in Amestrian. His mind flickered back to years of hot, summer afternoons as a child, sitting in a gloomy study reciting Cretan verb conjugations under the then Lieutenant Colonel Grumman's watchful eye. Roy had always had a talent for languages and even after so many years, the shapes of the words drawn out in gold retained an easy familiarity. _Alchemical Symbolism Throughout The Ages, _the title back to the front cover, Roy noticed a piece of paper tucked in between the pages, the note written in Edward's handwriting.

_Hey Colonel Bastard- okay, fine, General Bastard, whatever,_

_Saw this in a market in a town in Creta somewhere and it made me think of you, what with the salamander and all. Don't worry, I didn't spend that much on you, it's about fifty-seventh-hand or something, so I was able to get it pretty cheap. I don't think it cost more than 520 cens, even. Anyway, I'm moving on to the west coast now, so I doubt I'll be in touch for a while. Sorry to break your heart like that, I know how much you're missing me. Have fun on your birthday- Winry told me all about the big, fancy party you're having for all the top brass in Central. Bet you're going to love that. Try not to get too drunk and flirt with all the ugly, middle aged generals' wives. Say hi to the lieutenant and all the guys for me. _

_- Ed_

Roy passed Riza the note after he'd read it, struggling not to laugh while feeling oddly moved at the same time. She took the paper and scanned it briefly before handing it back to him, the corners of her lips twitching almost unnoticeably.

"That was... very sweet of Edward, sir." She said finally. "Although... I don't remember you ever telling Ed that you could read Cretan."

Roy laughed, shaking his head. "I didn't."

* * *

><p>Roy pulled at the cuffs of his uniform, making sure they were straight. The formal dress uniform wasn't much different from standard, everyday wear, just a bit more gold braid and shinier buttons, but somehow it always seemed more uncomfortable. Still, it was the night of his long-awaited birthday party and he had to look his best.<p>

Roy strode through the large double doors, Hawkeye walking a short distance behind. The hall was already filled with people yet the steady hum of conversation stopped as soon as he entered. Roy fought down the urge to smirk. Whether he'd wanted this party or not, making a dramatic entrance was one of the things he did best. After a moment's silence, the band launched into an instrumental version of 'happy birthday' which, thankfully, no one tried to sing along to. Roy endured the- slightly embarrassing- moment with good grace, thanking the band and the amassed crowd of guests, doing his best to sound as surprised and grateful as possible. Silently, he added thanks to his foster mother for her years of lessons in how to charm and flatter people. Tonight he would need those skills more than ever.

"Ah, the birthday boy arrives! Good evening, General Mustang and congratulations on reaching your thirty-third year!" Roy turned to see Fuhrer Grumman standing behind him, his spectacles glinting in the light of the chandeliers and a glass of champagne in one hand.

"You say that as if it were a surprise, Sir," Roy laughed. He motioned subtly for Hawkeye to stand closer to him- she didn't have to be on bodyguard duty all the time, especially not when talking to her own grandfather.

"Well, you know you young people, always rushing around, getting yourselves into all kinds of danger. Old men like me find it quite difficult to keep track." Grumman smiled, a gleam in his eyes, before noticing Riza's arrival. "Lieutenant Hawkeye! You're looking as lovely as ever, my dear. I do hope our dashing young general here isn't working you too hard?"

"Not at all, Sir." Hawkeye replied. Her tone was subdued, as usual for speaking to high-ranking officers other than him, but Roy could detect the amusement in her voice. "I can assure you that General Mustang is a very fair and agreeable commanding officer."

Several people looked round at the sound of the Grumman's cackling laughter but quickly returned to their conversations. Officers in Central had long since become accustomed to their new Fuhrer's mild eccentricities. "I don't doubt he is, Lieutenant! Now, my boy," Grumman took Roy's elbow and led him towards a long table at the end of the hall. "Let's see if we can find a drink for you and the lovely lieutenant..."

Twenty minutes later and Roy had decided that maybe the party hadn't been such a bad idea, after all. He stood close to the drinks table with Breda and Hawkeye, watching his foster mother engaging a rather stout, elderly Brigadier General in what was apparently a fascinating conversation. The poor man seemed to be spending a lot of the time nodding in an increasingly nervous manner, a state not too uncommon for people meeting the Madame for the first time. Still, Roy had no doubt that by the time Chris had wandered away in a cloud of jewels and expensive perfume the hapless General would be left with nothing but a sense of admiration for the charming, witty woman he had just spoken too, along with the distinct feeling that perhaps he really _should_ consider supporting that young Mustang lad's career advancement- after all, the man couldn't possibly be all that bad, having been raised by such a delightful lady. Many of Roy's more recent supporters tended to speak about his upbringing with hushed voices and shifting eyes, but Roy had never considered his background a disadvantage. When it had come to the party, neither Roy nor Grumman- a regular at Christmas' establishment since longer than Roy could remember- had any doubt that the Madame would be on the guest list, along with whichever members of Roy's 'family' who wished to attend. Chris was having great fun being introduced by Grumman as 'one of Central City's most esteemed entrepreneurs' while Roy was able to relax much more than he would otherwise, safe in the knowledge that his foster mother was taking care of much of the networking for him.

Breda suddenly broke off their conversation to point out Havoc's entrance to the Great Hall, accompanied by Maria Ross, who looked stunning in a low-cut dress of green silk. Roy's former lieutenant had long since regained full use of his legs thanks to Marco's Philosopher's Stone, although he still had to walk with a cane on some occasions. This lingering hint of disability had prevented Havoc from re-enlisting in the military but he had not spent his retirement idly. Havoc had used his friendship with Maria Ross to secure trade agreements with Xing and the construction of the trans-Ishvalan railway had ensured that business was prospering. Now, from the look of the way Ross was clinging to his arm, it seemed that bond of friendship had transformed into something else. _Took long enough, _Roy couldn't help but think. Those two had been flirting shamelessly with each other since the Promised Day, if not long before.

Havoc noticed Breda waving from across the hall and he and Maria hurried over the floor to join their small group. Roy greeted Havoc warmly, holding his hand out to shake before changing his mind and hugging the man instead. After his rehabilitation, Havoc had moved back out to the east to be with his family- and, apparently, Maria Ross- while Roy and the rest of the team alternated between months spent working with tribes in Ishval and political machinations back in Central. Their respective busy schedules meant that none of the remaining team members had seen Havoc for over a year and they had all missed him terribly.

"Hey, Havoc!" Breda laughed after all the greetings had been exchanged. "Just how long were you planning to keep this a secret, huh?" He gestured to Havoc and Maria, still arm in arm, and Havoc grinned awkwardly. "You weren't still worried that the Boss was gonna try and steal her away from you, were you?"

Ross laughed. "He couldn't, even if he tried." She murmured. Roy couldn't help but smile at the way Maria's eyes lit up whenever she glanced at the man standing at her side. Yes, it seemed that after years of bad choices and even worse luck, Havoc had finally found a girl worthy of him.

"Yeah, well... you know how it is!" Havoc replied, looking flustered from all the sudden attention. "I was definitely planning on telling you all, but we've only been together for a few months now, and well... you guys are always on the move somewhere, it's hell trying to get hold of you, and..."

"It's okay, Jean," Hawkeye replied, her tone halfway between conciliatory and struggling to bite back laughter. "You know Breda was just teasing. We all know that you've been busy."

"So, where's Falman and Fuery?" Havoc asked, clearly wanting to change the subject. "I couldn't see them when we walked in."

"Over there." Breda pointed to where Falman stood, deep in conversation with Major Miles, Fuery standing by his side. "Falman ended up becoming pretty good friends with the major during his time stationed up at Briggs and when we were all working together on the Ishval restoration project. I think Fuery's still a little bit scared of him, but the kid seems to be holding his own."

Havoc smiled. "That's nice. I guess that time up north really gave Falman a confidence boost or something." Then he paled, the blood draining from his face drastically. "Wait... if Major Miles is here, doesn't that mean that..."

"No, don't worry." Hawkeye cut him off hastily. "General Armstrong couldn't make it tonight, which is why she sent Major Miles instead. Major Armstrong is here, of course, but you needn't worry about his sister."

"Of course, we all know the real reason why General Armstrong isn't here tonight," Roy broke in. Hawkeye turned to look at him, arching an eyebrow. "She was worried that the combination of free-flowing champagne and the sudden proximity of my irresistible good looks would lead her to do something she would later consider to be... imprudent."

Breda snorted derisively. "Sure, _that's_ the reason. Not... what was it now? 'I wouldn't waste my evening bowing and scraping to that upstart brat Mustang like some Central sycophant if you paid me." Nothing like that was mentioned, was it?"

"Well... the space between what a woman says and what she really means is often very large." Roy countered. "I mean, just ask Hawkeye."

Hawkeye turned wide, amber eyes towards him, her face as deadpan as any gambler's and as innocent as any new born child's. "I'm afraid I don't have any idea what you're talking about, Sir."

* * *

><p>The dining table looked splendid. The pristine white linen of the table cloth was bedecked in the finest china, the silver cutlery sparkling in the warm light of the candles. Roy had attended any number of formal military dinners in East City, but the luxury afforded in Central was clearly far above anything the officers in East could ever hope to provide. No wonder Grumman had, despite his former lack of ambition, always seemed slightly bitter about his assignment there, Roy mused.<p>

As the guest of honour Roy was seated in the middle of the long table, surrounded by the Fuhrer and various other high-ranking military officials. He could see Riza and the rest of his team from the corner of his eye and, as the prospect of spending the remainder of the four course meal listening to propositions and threats thinly disguised as small talk looked to become an inescapable reality, he found himself deeply regretting not having insisted on control over the seating plan. Unfortunately, for a high ranking general to sit in the company of a group of lieutenants and retired soldiers, even at an event ostensibly held for his personal benefit, would be a shocking breach of protocol that the fine military traditions of Central simply would not allow.

Thankfully, the arrival of the fish course a few minutes before had necessitated a slight null in the conversations around him and Roy was able to get back to the much more rewarding task of trying to catch Riza's eye from across the table. She seemed to be engaged in what Roy could only wistfully imagine to be a highly entertaining discussion with Breda, so, defeated, he returned to his meal. He took a sip of his wine, trying, not for the first time since the start of the dinner, to work out what was wrong with it. Someone, probably Grumman or Riza, had apparently told the kitchen staff about his fondness for Southern Aergoan wines- a luxury now, thanks to recent years' hostilities- and the waiters appeared to have made it a point of pride to ensure that his glass was constantly filled with his favourite vintage. Yet there was something not quite right about the taste of the wine, a faint, slightly bitter quality that grew more pronounced with every sip that he took. He hadn't noticed it at first, when the waiter had opened the bottle and he was reluctant to complain, considering all the effort and consideration that had been expended on his behalf. Aside from hurting the feelings of the staff, it wouldn't do for him to be seen as petty or demanding in front of his potential political rivals.

"...think of all the recent social reforms in Creta, Mustang? Reckon the situation there's stable, or is it all going to end up with petty regional squabbling, like usual?"

Roy turned his head to see the portly Lieutenant General on his right regarding him intently. General Reynolds was a close friend of Grumman's and, despite his blustering demeanour was known to be a competent commander and a man of integrity, someone Roy was interesting in cultivating as a supporter. Yet he had just missed who knew how much of what the man had been saying to him- definitely not a good start.

"I'm sorry, what were you saying? I'm afraid I didn't catch the first part of your question, my mind seems to be drifting somewhat tonight." Roy replied, trying to sound as polite as possible. The start of what promised to be a pounding headache had just started behind his temples and his mouth seemed unpleasantly dry for some reason. He took another sip of wine, considering switching to water.

"Ha! You alchemists, always got your heads in the clouds! Well, not to worry, Mustang. You're probably just going prematurely senile from spending so much time around all us old fogeys!"

Roy laughed weakly, desperately trying to think of some witty reply. He really was beginning to feel awful. The fish, which, only moments before had tasted delicious, was now making him feel faintly sick and his headache was definitely getting worse. He took a large gulp of water, struggling to swallow around the sudden tightness of his throat.

"You... you do yourself a disservice, General Reynolds." Roy gasped out. "The Fuhrer has always told me that you are the only person who could ever beat him at shogi." His breath was coming in short pants now and a frantic pressure gripped his chest. He put a finger against his wrist: his pulse was _racing_.

Distantly, the old general laughed, the sound seeming to have travelled through water before reaching Roy's ears. "Quite true, Mustang, Quite true! Although, of course, I am still unable to best that wily old fox at a good old fashioned game of chess..." Suddenly a hand gripped Roy's shoulder, its slight weight unbearable. The wine in his glass trembled as his hand fell to the table to steady himself. General Reynolds' concerned eyes gazed at him intently.

"I say, Mustang, are you alright? You look awful, if you don't mind me saying so."

Roy blinked; the general's face looked as if it were reaching him through water too. The glow of the candles was almost blindingly bright and the sharp pain beating against his skull was now nearly too much to bear. "Yes... I think you're right... I don't feel all that well. Something in the food must have disagreed with me. I... I think I'll go freshen up a bit, I'll be back in a moment."

"Sounds like a good idea, my boy. Don't worry; I'll let everyone know not to be alarmed." The general replied. Roy was already struggling to his feet as the man spoke, gripping the back of his chair as the room swirled precariously before his eyes. Taking slow, careful steps away from the table, he moved towards the door leading to the bathrooms. He felt like he had in those mercifully few, terrifying days of blindness. He still had his vision in all its painful acuity, yet the sense of paralysing vertigo and disorientation was the same as that time. Roy forced himself to walk steadily. He could not afford to let on how affected he was by this strange and sudden illness. The bouts of dizziness and nausea would soon pass, he was sure of it, and it would not do to have people worrying unnecessarily. He could hear voices from the table raised in alarm and the placating tones of old General Reynolds explaining the situation. The general was a good man, Roy thought hazily. He'd have to remember to thank him later.

He reached the door and, safe in the narrow corridor leading to the men's bathroom, allowed himself to slump bonelessly against the wall. Roy felt his way along the smooth, white tiles, waves of sickness rushing over him with every step. His stomach was churning and the floor was spinning, amplified by even his slightest movement. Thankfully, the corridor was not long. Roy staggered through the bathroom door, only just making it to the row of sinks before he threw up. He gripped the cool porcelain of the sink's rim as his back heaved painfully, stomach acid burning his dry throat. Hands trembling slightly, he twisted the taps on, fighting back the urge to be sick again. He splashed his face and gasped as the cold water met his flushed skin. The room was incredibly hot, he realised. Far hotter than it should be for an evening in early autumn. He tugged at the collar of his uniform jacket but his fingers were shaking too hard to undo the buttons.

Roy started at the gentle knock on the door leading from the corridor. He couldn't afford to be seen like this. He tried to rush into one of the stalls as the door began to open, a desperate attempt to hide himself from the intruder, but dizziness overcame him after only a few steps and he fell, hitting his knees hard against the polished stone tiles.

"Shit! Boss, what's wrong? Roy? Are you okay?" The intruder rushed across the room and crouched down next to Roy, a strong hand reaching out to steady him. Roy glanced up to see Havoc's face staring at him through the blur of white tiles, his blue eyes filled with concern and a hint of fear. "Gods... you look terrible. And..." Havoc moved closer suddenly, gazing into Roy's eyes intently. "Your pupils are _huge. _What's wrong with you? Hawkeye sent me to check up on you, to make sure you were alright. But... you're not, are you?"

"Evidently... not..." Roy choked out. Speaking was getting almost unbearable, his throat was so dry. He leant heavily on Havoc's arm as the taller man helped him to his feet, his heart pounding with the slight exertion. "Hawkeye sent you? Why... why didn't she come?"

"Well boss," Havoc chuckled nervously, steadying Roy as they walked towards the sinks. "This _is_ a men's bathroom."

"Oh yeah... I forgot that." Roy replied. He gasped as his stomach twisted sharply with nausea, the sickness so acute as to be physically painful. He turned away from Havoc. "I'm sorry, I..."

Roy stumbled the remaining way towards the sink, leaning against it heavily as his body forced him into another round of agonised retching. His stomach was soon empty yet he continued to heave, nausea-born tears falling angrily from beneath his tightly clenched eyelids. Far outside the shrunken world of his own suffering Havoc's warm hands gently gripped his trembling shoulders, a thumb stroking the back of his neck in a desperate attempt to offer comfort. When the spasms finally ceased, Havoc wordlessly offered him a damp towel and Roy wiped his face gratefully. His head was pounding, the sudden bout of sickness causing his headache to return in full force. He clutched at his head, using all his willpower to keep from crying out from the pain. He had to appear stronger than that in front of Havoc. Havoc... Havoc was saying something. What was it? He needed to concentrate.

"Sir, I think this might be something really serious; we have to get you to a hospital." Roy turned to stare at his former lieutenant, blinking slowly. His mind was rapidly filling with shadows and shifting fog and he struggled to comprehend the other man's words. "I'm going to go get Hawkeye, okay? I'll bring her back here and call an ambulance for you."

Havoc guided Roy, still trembling, to lean against the wall then turned to walk away. Roy grabbed his arm as he moved, alarm racing through him. Where was Havoc going? "Don't... don't leave me, Havoc." He whispered hoarsely. He didn't want to be alone.

Havoc hesitated, turning back to look at Roy. His startling blue eyes were wide and when he spoke, his voice was slow, placating. "It's alright, boss... I'm just going to get Hawkeye and then I'll be back straight away. Just... just stay there, don't move. I'll be as quick as I can, I promise." As gently as possible, Havoc released Roy's grip on his arm, before striding briskly towards the door. Havoc's shoulders stiffened as Roy called out to him, panic clear in his voice, but still he didn't look back.

* * *

><p>Riza tapped her nails against the tablecloth, her eyes fixed on the far end of the hall, on the door that both Roy and Havoc had left by. She hadn't touched her food since Roy had left the table, over ten minutes ago now. The other guests had happily accepted Reynolds' explanation that General Mustang was just feeling a little unwell and would be back shortly and had quickly returned to their conversations. But as the minutes since Havoc had gone to check on Roy slipped by, Hawkeye began to feel increasingly worried. An anxious silence had descended on their entire group- no one was eating now and Riza could see from the faces around her that the same thought was on all their minds. <em>What's taking them so long?<em>

Breda nudged her arm and she looked up to see Havoc enter through the door at the back of the hall. He was not running, as such, but there was an urgency to his steps that sent a sickening twist of worry through her chest. That worry only intensified as he reached their group and came to stand by her side, his face drawn tight with fear. "What's the situation?" Riza asked, her voice calm. They couldn't let anyone suspect something was wrong.

Havoc swallowed, hesitation clear in his stance. With a quick glance at the guests, all obliviously engaged in their conversations, he leant down, speaking quietly into Riza's ear. "It's not good. I think he's seriously ill. He was vomiting and could hardly walk without falling over. I'd say he was drunk, but he's barely had anything tonight, as you know. He's clearly in pain and I think he's a bit delirious, too. Oh, and his pupils are dilated- I can't say for sure, of course, but it seems to me like he might have been drugged with something." Riza listened to Havoc listing the symptoms of Roy's suffering with the same controlled detachment as she would to any field report, forcing back the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to retain her composure or she would not be able to help Roy.

"Okay." Riza took a deep breath. "Havoc, you and I will go look after the general until we can get him to hospital." She turned to Breda, who had been following the conversation intently. "Breda, get Fuery or someone to call an ambulance. Sort out a story for the guests- tell them the general's been taken ill unexpectedly, but _don't_ mention that we suspect drugging, not even to the Fuhrer. Make sure Madame Christmas is informed of exactly what's going on, and the rest of the team too. But no one else." Breda nodded sharply and Riza could tell he'd understood her implicit warning. If Roy really had been poisoned as Havoc suspected then anyone could be responsible. They would have to tread carefully.

Riza and Havoc left the table, trusting Breda and the other team members to make some innocuous excuse for their absence while they hurried to find their commander. Riza strode ahead, fear clawing at the edges of her careful self-control. She burst through the door to the men's bathroom, before stopping in shock at the sight that greeted her.

Roy was hunched over on the floor, one hand gripping his hair while tiny moans of pain escaped from his lips. His skin was flushed and he was breathing far too quickly. Riza rushed towards him, lifting his chin so she could look at his face. Havoc was right, Roy's pupils were massively dilated- Riza could barely see his irises at all. Roy looked up at her in confusion, as if he had only just noticed her presence.

"Riza?" What are you doing here? What's going on?" His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, and tight with pain. Riza took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "It's okay, Sir. I'm going to stay with you until the ambulance comes, alright? You'll be fine." She felt lost. Even in their darkest hours, when danger threatened them from all sides and it seemed there could be no hope of victory, she had always been able to rely on Roy to lead them. Even during that terrible time in the tunnels below Central, when he had almost destroyed himself in his search for revenge, he had still remained in control of his own mind. Seeing Roy like this, so helpless and confused... it was painful.

Roy stared at her as she spoke, dark eyes clouded with pain yet burning with an almost feverish intensity despite the fog clouding his mind. "Where... where did Hughes go?"

Riza's breath caught but she forced her voice to remain steady as she answered. She couldn't let Roy know how afraid she was. "Hughes? What are you talking about, Sir?" He had to be hallucinating, she realised. Whatever substance he had been drugged with was causing damage far greater than just simple confusion.

Roy frowned at her, his hand clutching her own. "Hughes... he was here, a while ago with me. Where is he now?" his eyes slid away from her face, dazedly searching the room around them. Roy's head fell back heavily against the wall, his unblinking eyes still moving, as if he could find Hughes hidden on the ceiling.

"No, Roy," Riza spoke soothingly, abandoning all pretence of formality. "Hughes wasn't here, that was Havoc. You... you're hallucinating, Roy." She glanced over at Havoc, who was standing by the door, gesturing for him to come closer. Havoc walked slowly, as one would approach a startled deer. In the echoing chamber of the bathroom, he must have heard every word that they had said and Riza could tell that he was fighting back the same fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

"It's me, Boss, Havoc. See? I was with you earlier, do you remember?" He crouched down next to Riza but Roy shrank away from him, shaking his head vigorously. "No, no it wasn't you, it was Hughes. We were out drinking together to celebrate my birthday, but then... I don't remember... we came here for some reason, and I was sick. I'd probably drunk too much. Where is he now?"

"I don't get it," Havoc muttered to Riza, as quietly as possible. "He knew who I was before; he spoke my name just before I left. Is he hallucinating or something?"

"He must be," Riza replied. "I don't think we're going to get anywhere by reasoning with him, it would probably just distress him further. We just have to try and keep him safe until the ambulance arrives. At least the hallucinations seem relatively mild so far. And the more symptoms we have, the easier it will be to identify whatever it is he's been given."

Havoc nodded, biting his lip. Riza returned to watching Roy, desperately wishing she could believe her own dispassionate logic as she watched him curl in on himself in agony, a shaking hand held over his mouth as he struggled to hold back his pain. A soft cry, almost a sob, fell from his lips and she could bear it no longer; she had to do something to help him, however futile. Riza shifted, moving to sit back against the wall, next to Roy. She gathered him into her arms, holding him tightly and letting him rest his head on her shoulder. He curled up to her gratefully, pain and confusion tearing down the barricades that so often lay between them. From the corner of her eye, Riza could see Havoc standing awkwardly to the side and trying his best not to look their way. His attempt to allow them some privacy touched her and she couldn't help but be amused at how obviously flustered he was at the small display of affection. Clearly the attitudes that she and Roy had cultivated for so long were contagious.

Her amusement fled quickly when Roy moaned again, hands pressed to his stomach. She stroked his hair, cursing her own helplessness. Where was the ambulance? Rationally, she reminded herself that, however long it may seem to her, it had only been a few minutes since they had left the dining hall. The ambulance could not have arrived yet. Still, it would be a good idea to be prepared for when it did.

"Havoc, go find Fuery or one of the other members of the team and ask them how long the ambulance's going to be. Let them know that we're here and come and get us as soon as the ambulance arrives, okay? I don't think it's a good idea to move the general any sooner than we have to- he's in too much pain and I doubt he'd want many people to see him like this."

Havoc nodded, walking away briskly. Roy didn't seem to notice his absence, so focused was he on the pain racking his body. Riza glanced down at him. Roy's eyes were open but frighteningly distant, constantly darting around the room, staring at things that only he could see. Swallowing back her anxiety, she held him closer, counting down the seconds and praying for help to arrive.

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><p><em>Please leave a review if you can- I'd love to know what you think.<em>


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Yay, I've finally finished this chapter! Sorry it's been so long, RL has been getting in the way of writing a lot recently and what with me not being the fastest of writers at the best of times... well, anyway, the important thing is that it's here now, right? Oh, and I know I said this was only going to be a two-parter... well, I changed my mind about that and there's now going to be a third (and final) chapter which will hopefully be posted much sooner than the second one. Hope you enjoy this chapter, also I don't own FMA, much to my continued disappointment._

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><p>Long minutes dragged by as they waited for the ambulance. Roy's hallucinations were growing increasingly severe and he struggled in Riza's arms, lashing out at the imagined spectres haunting his delirious mind. "Riza," he whispered, his breath warm against her neck, each word sending tiny shivers across her skin. "I'm so scared."<p>

"Scared of what, Roy?"

"The shadows... they're watching me. Their eyes... they can see right through me. They're closing in on us..." He pressed himself closer, turning his face towards her shoulder like a child seeking comfort in the dark. Riza shivered, thinking of the homunculus Pride, its thousand shadowy tendrils reaching out towards her commander, pinning him to the ground and forcing him to commit a taboo. She supposed it should come as no surprise that the monsters that haunted their sleep should play a part in shaping the drug-induced apparitions that plagued him now. Riza dreaded to think what else he would see before the night was out.

_If he even survives the night at all... whoever did this won't have just wanted to scare him... _Riza shook her head firmly, refusing to give credence to the terrible thought. Roy would be fine. The doctors at Central Hospital were the best in all Amestris and they would have no trouble figuring out what had poisoned Roy. He would be back to normal by morning. But for now, it was her duty to keep him safe, to watch over him and to carefully and emotionlessly observe each of his symptoms so the doctors could identify what was killing her general.

Riza started as the door burst open, loud and unannounced. Roy shrank away and Riza could tell by a glance that it was not Havoc he was seeing outlined in the flickering light of the hallway. Roy's eyes were wide in terror and he pushed against her with frantic movements, cursing and pleading when she refused to let him go. Havoc remained standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes filled with uncertainty. He turned to look at her, the unspoken question clear, and she nodded once, displaying a confidence she did not feel. But the action succeeded in rousing Havoc from his frozen state and he moved towards them, caution clear in every step, motioning to two men standing behind him. Riza could see from their uniforms that they were paramedics and part of her that had been stretched tight with worry relaxed slightly at the sight. _Thank goodness. _

The paramedics advanced into the room, carrying a stretcher with them. Roy stopped struggling as they drew nearer and instead sat, trembling violently, against Riza, his eyes staring up at the men in abject terror. With great care, they lifted him, moving him onto the stretcher. Roy screamed at the touch of the paramedics' hands, thrashing and kicking, his gloveless fingers snapping uselessly. Riza rushed to his side, capturing his flailing hand in her own and murmuring meaningless words of comfort as the paramedics carried him out of the room. Havoc joined her, helping to hold Roy down as he tried to escape. Riza glanced at Havoc from across the stretcher; he was trying his best to keep his features frozen in the same careful impassivity displayed on the faces of the paramedics but the slight tremor of his tightly set mouth and the unnatural brightness of his eyes gave him away. Riza, too, was struggling to hold back tears. Seeing her cry would only upset Roy further.

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><p><em>The pain is not stopping. His skull is slowly collapsing under the unbearable pressure, shattering and caving inwards as his guts slowly twist themselves around each other, thousands of fine razor blades scoring into his insides. Even screaming hurts, but he cannot make himself stop. His skin feels as if it is burning and some distant part of his mind wonders if this is not fair judgement, delivered to him at last.<em>

_But even the pain is nothing compared to the terror gripping his mind as he stares up at his captors. The shadows haunting the edges of his vision have bled out of the corners of the room, solidifying and gaining human form. Huge, misshapen eyes and gleaming arrays of pointed teeth leer down at him from faces of shifting darkness and hungry, eager hands grasp at him as he lies, unable to move from fear. Bright sparks of agony follow their touch and the creatures laugh as he struggles in their clutches. He raises his hands, snapping his fingers but no twisting ribbons of flame answer his call, no burst of heat and light rises up to banish the shadows that surround him. A hot wetness falls onto his face, running down his cheeks like the tears he knows he is not shedding. He tears his gaze away from his captors, towards his rebellious hands and almost laughs at his prior confusion. Of course- how could he have forgotten? Blood continues to drip steadily from the wounds in his hands, bubbling up from where sharp blades had sliced through flesh and shattered bone to paint his palms and fingers in a slick coat of crimson. Yet the pain is a curiously distant thing, each throbbing wave of agony like a memory of something he had once suffered. _

_A strong hand grasps his own and suddenly the pain feels very real indeed. He looks up and almost chokes on fear when he sees his lieutenant- Hawkeye, Riza, the one person he thought would always stand by him- staring down at him with cold, shadowed eyes. A malicious smile tugs at her lips as she digs her sharp fingers deeper into his wounded hand, her tight grip crushing shards of broken bone further into his torn flesh. He tries to pull away, horror and confusion breathing a feverish intensity back into his attempts at escape. But Riza is soon joined by another shadow, this time wearing Havoc's face, and his struggles for freedom are suppressed with pathetic ease. They are so strong and he is weak, far too weak to fight any further. He closes his eyes, defeated, and lets himself be carried away._

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><p>Roy was quieter now. Riza didn't know if that was a good sign or not but the paramedics seemed relieved. <em>"We can sedate him if we have to,"<em> they'd explained. _"But that's only as an emergency measure- without knowing what he's been poisoned with, there's far too much risk in giving him anything."_ Now that Roy had stopped struggling they were able to carry him to the ambulance with relative ease. They avoided the Great Hall and all crowded corridors- the sight of too many people might shock Roy into another panic attack and Riza could not allow anyone to see him like this.

The rest of the team were already waiting for them when they reached the ambulance. Madame Christmas stood nearby, a cigarette held to her lips between fingers that, to an average observer, remained completely steady, her composure never wavering. But Riza's eyes were far from average and, even caught up in the midst of her own panic, she could see the way the Madame's hand shook almost imperceptibly as her gaze lighted on the sight of her only son, his eyes wide and his body trembling from delirium, whimpers of pain escaping his throat. There was only room for one extra on the ambulance, so Riza swallowed down her own selfishness and offered Christmas the place. She was Roy's next of kin, after all; it was her right. But Chris waved away the offer, her words low and hurried as the medics loaded Roy into the ambulance.

"I know I can trust you to see he's looked after, Lieutenant. I don't know what's going on in his head right now, but he always seems to do better with you around." Riza tried hard not to remember the look of pure terror on Roy's face when she had taken his hand, only moments ago. "As for me," Chris went on, "there are some... enquiries that need making. I'm sure there are many of us here who'd like the chance to have a quiet talk with whomever is responsible for this."

Riza nodded mutely, not quite sure how to thank the woman. Chris gave her a small push in the direction of the ambulance. "Go on," she murmured. "He needs you there."

The inside of the vehicle was as cramped as she remembered, medical apparatus hanging from every available space and the siren blaring distantly overhead. Her last journey in an ambulance had not been so different, Riza mused. Roy, helpless and suffering, possibly at the brink of death as she sat by him, desperately struggling to hold back her panic. The paramedics' words had been an empty, background haze that time, so concerned had she been with the way his face grew more pale with every ragged breath he took, every faint beat of his labouring heart. But this time she could not afford to be so helpless, so passive. The paramedics bombarded her with questions almost as soon as the ambulance had pulled away and Riza was glad, at least, that she could do this much to help Roy.

First signs started about twenty minutes ago, when he left the table unexpectedly. Yes, a glass or two of red wine and some champagne before that. Vomiting and a headache, followed by stomach pain, disorientation and hallucinations. No, no idea... Riza's head spun from the dizzying barrage of questions, some which she had no way to answer. Of course she didn't know what Roy had been poisoned with, did they think the would-be assassin was simply going to announce their intentions to the crowd? The thought of the poisoner sent an uncharacteristic shard of anger piercing through her, white hot and vicious in its demands for retribution.

A pained whimper broke Riza away from her vengeful imaginings and she looked down to see Roy staring at her with glazed eyes. Having ascertained that he was in no immediate danger, the paramedics had moved aside to allow Riza to sit closer to her general. She could see them out of the corner of her eye, taking notes on all of Roy's symptoms coupled with the little information she had been able to provide. Roy moaned again and brought a hand up to clutch at his shoulder, his eyes clenching shut with pain. Riza hurried to take his hand in her own, not wanting Roy to hurt himself in his delirious state.

"Hawkeye." Roy's voice was hoarse, the syllables of her name catching in his throat. Dark eyes blinked open once more and Riza could see them darting around the crowded interior of the vehicle, trying to absorb every detail. "What are you doing here?"

Riza could detect no panic in his tone, only a note of mild bemusement, and allowed herself a faint glimmer of hope that perhaps his hallucinations were lessening. "You're on the way to the hospital, Sir. I'm here to look out for you and make sure you're doing ok. Don't worry; I'm not hurt at all. And you..." She swallowed, keeping her voice resolutely strong. "You're going to be fine too."

Roy smiled, squeezing her hand weakly with his trembling fingers. "Thank you. I... I know I shouldn't be, but I'm glad you're here. Throughout all of this, I've felt better knowing you were watching over me." Roy twisted his chin, glancing down at his shoulder. "How... how did I get shot?"

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><p><em>The heat is almost unbearable. The warm, dry air presses down upon him from all sides, burning his parched throat with each rasping breath. His body aches all over, a constant, dull throb that speaks of dark bruises and broken skin but the pain is nothing but mild discomfort compared to the sharp waves of agony radiating from his left shoulder. He glances down- his jacket glistens wetly with blood, the dark stain growing larger with each second as the wound continues to bleed. Confusion wells up in his exhausted mind- why has no one tried to stop the bleeding? Are there other, more injured casualties? He doesn't remember an attack, but the Daliha region was hardly secure- there were snipers and explosives everywhere. He just hopes no one else was hurt. <em>

_His movement sends a vicious spike of pain coursing through his body, searing his mind of any further thoughts and he concentrates on lying as still as possible, clenching his eyes shut in an attempt to block out all sensation. He doesn't quite succeed and a weak cry escapes him, sounding humiliatingly like a sob. He forces himself to open his eyes: assessing the situation is vital. It feels as if he's lying on a bed, but he can't be sure- if he is still in enemy territory then even the slightest sound could give him away to the Ishvalans. He knows he can expect no mercy from them. _

_As he'd thought, he is lying on a bed of some kind, in a small room cluttered with medical equipment. He becomes aware that he is in motion; there is a slight vibration coursing through the hard surface of the bed and, as he learns to focus, he hears the low rumbling of tyres running over uneven desert road. So, an ambulance then, or perhaps the back of a truck turned into an impromptu medical vehicle. The details don't really matter. What does matter is the woman sitting by his bed, her blonde hair tinged red with blood, dirt and blood streaking her pale face. Hawkeye is beautiful, even like this, and he knows he has no right to think that but he does so anyway. But what is she doing here? She should be at her post, that crumbling tower on the hill, not here with him. As much as he is grateful for her presence- and he is, he cannot deny that he is almost pathetically grateful- he cannot understand why she would abandon her duties just for him. _

_He shuts his eyes as another spasm of pain hits him, his hand reaching up towards his shoulder, an unconscious movement, and he notes with detached curiosity the way the blood seeping through his fingers pulses in time with the beating of his heart. There is so much blood, more than there should be. There should be someone putting pressure on the wound, some attempt to stop the bleeding, he knows that much. But Hawkeye does not seem to be concerned, so why should he be? His hand is coated in blood now; he can feel its warmth spreading across his skin. Hawkeye takes his hand, holding it tightly. His bloodstained fingers curl around her palm; his hand and hers, now both covered in blood, a metaphor made reality. He would laugh at the irony but the pain has stolen his strength, has left him weak, helpless, unable to do anything but lie still and try desperately not to scream. _

_After what seems like an eternity, the pain begins to subside and he finds that he is able to breathe again. He has to talk to Hawkeye. It is only through her that any of this could begin to make sense. His throat burns when he tries to speak, his voice nothing more than a raw whisper, the way it gets after days of battling through fire and smoke. But he has not been sent out on a mission for almost a week, he is sure of that. Or has he? He doesn't know what to think anymore. _

_Hawkeye answers, her callused fingers, still slick with blood, running over his trembling hand in an attempt to soothe. Their conversation is a shadowy blur to his confused mind but he must have said something wrong because suddenly Hawkeye is turning away, speaking in frantic tones to people he cannot see. He tries to reach out to her, to ask her what is going on, but it is at that moment that another wave of pain hits him, stronger than any before. He writhes helplessly on the bed, fingers digging into the coarse fabric, nothing but incoherent screams passing his lips. Distantly, he feels Hawkeye rush to take his hand again, but even her presence can do nothing to calm him._

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><p>Riza was nearly in tears by the time the ambulance reached the hospital, her stoic composure worn down by Roy's constant, agonised screaming. She could hardly bear to see him like this and it was the knowledge that there was <em>nothing they could do<em> that tore at her heart the most. Morphine would be useless, for the pain Roy was suffering was purely hallucinatory. Riza had suspected as much when Roy asked about a bullet wound that did not exist and the paramedics confirmed her fears- there were no known poisons that caused extreme pain which could also explain all of Roy's other symptoms. But more than Roy's immediate suffering, it was the implications of this imagined pain that sent a cold spasm of fear through Riza's stomach. If the doctors could not differentiate between which symptoms were real and which were hallucinatory, how could they ever hope to cure Roy? He could die like that; his precious life slipping away while they did nothing but watch, all the medical expertise in Central useless against the unknown killer. He could... _Stop it_, she told herself firmly. _Speculation is useless._ _All you can do is focus on the situation in front of you. _

It was only through constant, almost prayer-like repetition of this mantra that Riza was able to keep herself calm enough to help the paramedics. She held him down as he struggled to escape, crying and dry-retching whenever the paramedics came near. They rushed Roy out of the ambulance and through the winding corridors of the hospital to a private room, the narrow halls echoing with the sound of Roy's terror-filled cries. Once they were no longer moving he appeared to calm himself a little, although several of the stronger paramedics were needed to hold Roy down while a nurse took a sample of his blood. The nurse explained to Riza that this was absolutely necessary in order to identify the poison, but it was useless to reason with Roy in his state. From the way his wide, unnaturally dark eyes darted continually around the enclosed space, Riza could tell he was still caught up in some awful, drug-induced delusion and she could only imagine what horrors he might be seeing. At least before he had seemed aware that he had been traveling in an ambulance and that she was with him, even if she knew he had not truly understood what was going on. She had been able to reach him, then, to comfort him somewhat. But as the effects of the drug progressed, Riza knew that Roy would inevitably sink further and further into the dark haze of his delusions, a twisted maze of madness and terror through which she could never hope to follow. She had sworn to protect him from anything, with her dying breath if necessary, but against this she was helpless.

Riza was cut off from her dark thoughts by the abrupt slam of the door as a scowling, dark haired doctor walked into the room, the scent of tobacco clinging to his white coat. Knox walked in swift steps towards Roy, his customary grimace doing little to disguise the concern in his eyes. Riza knew that the flood of relief that rushed through her at the sight of the doctor was wholly irrational: Knox was in no better condition to cure Roy than any of the dozens of other physician in the city. The fact that he knew Roy, had fought monsters besides him, _cared_ for him in ways not unlike the father Roy had never known should not make any difference. Yet it did.

Knox's eyes ran over Roy's shivering form, both arms now flung over his face, as if trying to shut out the world. The doctor appeared to be running through some kind of mental checklist, occasionally glancing down at the paramedics' hastily scribbled file, the scowl on his face growing ever deeper as he went on.

"Well, Lieutenant, I'm not going to lie to you," Knox's gruff voice broke the silence and Roy flinched, his arms slowly moving down to allow him to assess this latest intruder. "From the symptoms we've seen here, Mustang could have been given any number of poisons. If the worst comes to the worst, we can always just give him the antidote for the most likely one, atropine, from the belladonna plant, and hope for the best, but I'd really rather not risk it. If he _hasn't_ been given that, well... the antidote could potentially make things a _lot_ worse for him."

Riza nodded, not trusting her voice to speak at that moment. "It's not as bad as it sounds, though," Knox continued. "We're conducting analysis of his blood right now and your team have brought over samples from everything he ate and drank tonight, along with any other materials that only he would have come into contact with. The lab guys are testing everything for suspicious compounds and we should have the results in an hour or so." Knox sighed harshly, his hopeful words belied by the anxiety in his voice. "And on his birthday, too," he muttered. "Poor kid..." He moved round the bed, taking Roy's wrist to check his pulse. At the touch of the other man, Roy lashed out and Knox was only just able to jump away in time to avoid Roy's flailing fist from colliding with his jaw. Knox cursed under his breath and stepped back a few paces, holding his hands out in front of him in a non-threatening gesture. Roy's eyes were open now and he was staring at the doctor with unconcealed terror, his entire body trembling violently.

"No," Roy whispered, but it was the voice of a much younger Flame Alchemist that echoed from his shivering frame. "No, not you, please, I can't... I-I know you hate this too, Knox, I know you're a good man..." Roy was almost sobbing now. Knox's face had bleached whiter than the lab coat he wore and Riza wanted to turn away, to keep from witnessing whatever intensely personal horror replaying between the two men. "So please... don't make me... d-don't make me hurt more people!"

Knox moved back even further, scrubbing a hand across his ashen face. In contrast to Roy, he suddenly seemed far older, weighed down by guilt and regrets that Riza could understand all too well. She said nothing but with a single glance at her face Knox must have seen all the questions she refused to ask. "He's reliving Ishval, I'd expect, or at least some version of it, although I'm sure you probably guessed that." At Riza's silent nod Knox continued, his words halting and his voice unbearably pained. "I suppose you've heard... stories... about what some of the doctors... myself included... did to Ishvalan prisoners during the war?"

Riza nodded again, not trusting herself to say anything. All the soldiers in Ishval had heard those stories, blood-curdling tales of shadowy laboratories and unimaginable torture conducted in the name of science. She remembered the nights keeping watch in the abandoned tower on the hill, the way the dark silence of the desert would be broken by haunting, inhuman screams travelling through the still air. Occasionally the screaming would be accompanied by bursts of unnatural light radiating from the bombed out Ishvalan hospital, the brief flash in the darkness like something from a ten-cenz gothic novel. Except this was no cheap storybook horror designed to thrill an audience; real people were suffering behind those carefully guarded walls, their deaths too terrible to contemplate. The thought that Roy might have been involved in such experiments made her stomach churn in horror. She had always known that there were aspects of Roy's wartime experiences that he would share with no one, not even her, dark, terror-filled memories that even now woke him screaming from nightmares. Yet to learn that Roy might have used her father's alchemy to torture innocent Ishvalans...

None of them were blameless in that war, she reminded herself sternly. They had all committed terrible crimes and she shared every bit of the blame and guilt for what Roy had been made to do.

Knox was looking at her, she realised, a carefully guarded expression on his face. "I see you're aware of what I'm talking about," he said, his voice low, unable to quite meet her eyes. "And you've probably already guessed what I'm about to say. Neither of us could speak to the other for years after Ishval without being reminded of the things we did together during the war... nearly broke Chris' heart to see the kid suffering so badly and nearly destroyed our friendship when I wouldn't tell her what'd happened. After that business with the homunculi things got a lot better, but as I'm sure you know, memories like those... they never really go away."

He drew in a shuddering breath. "I suppose I should have been prepared for this; hallucinations often draw from past events, particularly traumatic ones... it's only to be expected that he would start having flashbacks to Ishval. I guess it'd be best if I go... I'll find another doctor to treat him, someone who won't distress him quite so badly."

"No!" The word was out of Riza's mouth before she could stop it, the note of panic in her voice making her cringe. She almost blushed as she realised she was clutching Knox's sleeve and dropped it hastily, stepping back to try and cover her embarrassment. Riza took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. She knew her objection was unreasonable; Knox was only looking out for Roy's best interests when he suggested finding another doctor. But Riza could not shake the deep feeling of dread that came with the thought of leaving Roy in the care of some _stranger_, some unknown doctor who cared nothing for him and may not even be trustworthy. "Please, I know it sounds stupid, but..." She tried her best not to show how flustered she was, needed Knox to take her concern seriously. "I think Roy... if he could make the decision... I think he'd prefer to have you in charge of his medical care rather than any one else. He's..." she gestured towards the bed, to where Roy lay curled up once more, silent and unmoving. "He's already calmed down a lot, I know I don't know much about things like this, but I don't think he'll react like that to you again. And..." Another deep breath. "_I_ would feel better, knowing it was you looking after him. If something like this can happen in the middle of Central Headquarters when he's surrounded by people who care for him... then _anyone_ could be involved. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but you're the only doctor I can trust right now."

To her relief, Knox did not brush away her concern. He gave no reply to her outburst, but Riza could tell that he had decided to stay. Instead he walked back to Roy's side, cautiously taking the unresponsive man's wrist again. He stood there for thirty seconds, the room filling up with silence save for Roy's ragged breathing. Riza watched as the doctor drew a small torch out from his pocket, holding it above Roy's eyes. Riza's heart clenched in worry when Roy flinched away from the weak beam of light, a small cry of distress breaking from his lips. Knox, however, seemed unconcerned, even pleased. Finally the doctor broke away and Riza strained to catch the words he was muttering under his breath. "Persistent increased heart rate... tachycardia and photophobia consistent with anticholinergic overdose..."

He turned back to her and Riza thought she detected a wary flicker of hope amidst the worry in his eyes. "His heart rate is still elevated and he seems to have mild photophobia, which explains why he was keeping his eyes covered before. Both these symptoms fit the normal pattern of the type of drug we believe he's been given." Knox coughed, pausing to scribble some notes in Roy's file. "There are still too many possibilities for us to administer an antidote just yet, but this does give us an area in which to focus our tests, which should greatly speed up the process."

Riza knew it was far too early to allow herself to feel relief, knew that despite Knox's optimistic words, Roy was by no means out of danger yet. She pushed down the hope that threatened to overtake her, refusing to allow herself the luxury of something that may yet turn out to be so futile. Instead she schooled her features into a careful mask of impassivity and responded politely when Knox rushed out of the room, file in hand, calling over his shoulder that he would send in a nurse to watch over Roy while he was gone, in case of emergencies. Riza greeted the young woman with as much politeness as she could muster in her distracted state, noting with relief that Roy seemed unworried by her presence. She pulled up a chair to sit by her general's bedside, yet again taking his too-warm hand into her own. Roy gave no response when her fingers curled around his, not even the slightest movement, but she could not let herself worry about that now. Everything that _could_ be done _was_ being done and now there was nothing she could do but wait.

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><p><em>The world is distant to him now. The pain makes all sensation reach him as if through a wall of liquid, light rippling and distorted, sound dulled and echoing. Hawkeye's voice is all that anchors him, her clear words cutting through the haze. Except- no, wait. Something is not right here; there is an edge to Hawkeye's voice that he has never before heard, a hunger that echoes in her eyes. There are too many teeth in her smile, each white and gleaming and <em>sharp_. He can see the reflections of that smile in the dried blood red of her irises, two miniature rows of teeth leering at him from cold, eager eyes. But it is not only Hawkeye; _everything_ is wrong. His surroundings are flickering and distorting, the scene slowly rearranging itself into a different shape, each shift so subtle as to have hardly occurred. The air tastes like a snap of his fingers echoing in the silence of the desert, like oil sliding across water and its weight steals the breath from his lungs. The pain is receding now, replaced with fear that threatens to choke him in its intensity._

Everything around him is wrong.

_He is still in the ambulance, the weight of the desert heat surrounds him and the lingering vestiges of pain are dancing through his veins. Yet there is no wound marring his skin, no blood staining his clothes. There is a woman sitting by him wearing Hawkeye's skin but she is not her. The copy is almost perfect but she is too cold, her corpse's fingers grasping at his skin's warmth, her voice like sliding steel. He wants to pull away from her but he is strapped down, thick leather restraints holding his limbs in place. Terror grips him and he cannot escape its hold. He has never felt so helpless. His body is useless to him, his mind paralysed by fear and he is defenseless against nameless, sinister forces, ignorant of all but the unspoken promise that greater pain is yet to come. _

_They have stopped moving. He realises this slowly, his mind still shrouded in crippling fog. But the walls distorting his sight have fallen away; it is with clear vision that he can see the figures now crowding around him and it is all he can do to keep from screaming. They are hideous. The skin on the hands reaching towards him is melted and charred, blackened fingers scrape across his cheek and he gags as the scent of burned flesh assaults him. One of the figures draws near, bending over him as it gargles uselessly, its tongue a charcoaled mass lying dead in its mouth. Fluid glistens in the shells of blisters covering the figure's arms and face, vast tracts of flesh falling away completely. The oily yellow of exposed fat and raw, red flesh stand starkly against charred skin; not a single inch of the figure's body has been left unburnt. _

_There is no doubt as to who they are. Memories long since locked away burst through the barriers of his mind and he screams as the sickening array of forgotten sensations attack him anew with blinding force. The sight of red eyes boiling in their sockets, the sound of women screaming as they roasted alive, the smell... oh god, the smell of burning flesh... _

_They are his victims, reawakened from death to visit vengeance upon him. _

_He wants to beg, cry, _scream_ for forgiveness but he knows it would be futile. He does not deserve mercy; he did not show any to these people and he shall receive none in return. But even so, he cannot stop the terror-stricken cries that spill out of his throat nor still his thrashing arms as their scorched and blistered hands grasp at his skin. They are lifting him now, each rough movement causing a jolt of pain to race through his shattered form. He tries his best to calm himself, to block out each sensation and silence his pathetic screams- some distant part of his mind understands that this weakness is intolerable. But the pain is like an angry child: it cannot be ignored and gives him no respite from its demands. By the time the figures release him from their grasp he has succeeded in his efforts somewhat; he is unable to stop the sounds that agony pulls from him but the clamouring echo of his panicked thoughts have quietened and he is able to make sense of his surroundings._

_He is lying down once more, strapped to yet another stark, comfortless contraption, racing through the corridors of some shadowed building. The thing that is not Riza is with him still, cruelty gleaming in her too bright eyes and he turns away from her, unable to watch as she laughs at his pain. He looks around instead, battling the urge to close his eyes and hide himself away from these horrors. His breath catches when, in a burst of memory, the twists and turns of mildewed walls become familiar. Horribly, inescapably familiar. He understands now the purpose for which he was brought here and he screams as terror and revulsion threaten to submerge him. But screaming is useless, struggling is useless. There is no hope of escape._

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><p>It was another fifty minutes before Knox returned. Riza counted every torturous second, Roy's silver pocket watch clutched like a talisman in her hand. Roy seemed more lucid but Riza could gain no relief from that. Not when he was he growing steadily weaker before her eyes, his strength diminishing with every measured movement of the second hand against the watch's face.<p>

"Riza," Roy whispered in a voice recalling days of wind-blown smoke and clouds of choking ash. "I can't feel my fingers." He took a deep breath, almost a sob. "I can't move them at all. Riza, what's going on?"

He turned to look at her, his face a picture of such desolate misery that Riza could no longer hold back her tears. She wanted to curse her weakness as the first hot tear cut a trail down her cheek and Roy's face twisted in concern.

"Riza? Why are you crying?"

She shook her head, unable to say a word. Tears were flowing more freely now, but she could not bring herself to let go of Roy's hand to wipe them away. They were so close to finding an antidote; Knox had said it was pretty much a matter of time... Why was it she was incapable of holding herself together now? But seeing Roy like this, so helpless and diminished, had cut into some small, locked-away part of her heart, a part that remembered every desperate prayer she had ever spoken, every loss she had ever endured.

"It's alright, Roy," she murmured, wishing her words didn't sound so much like lies. "You're going to be alright, I promise."

Everything about the situation was so wrong. She shouldn't be speaking to Roy like he was some anxious child, offering him meaningless promises she had no idea if she could keep. Right now they should be at Central Headquarters, Roy standing at the centre of a flock of admirers, wearing his most charming smile, as strong and proud as always. It was unthinkable that someone could have reduced her general to such a pitiful state. Yet, somehow, it had happened.

The dark thoughts circled around her head like vultures as the long minutes dragged by. Riza was more relieved than she could say when a sharp knock on the door broke her out of her reverie. She hastily put down Roy's watch and wiped her tear-stained cheeks with her sleeves, looking up just in time to see Knox burst into the room for the second time that evening. He was still scowling- sometimes Riza wondered if that was the only expression he was capable of- but his mood seemed lighter than before.

"Well, Lieutenant, we've managed to identify the poison." Knox announced, a smile finally finding its way onto his face. "Atropine, as I suspected, administered through the wine he was drinking. I had some of the hospital's alchemists knock up an antidote and there's no reason why we can't give it to him right now."

Knox held aloft a small syringe filled with clear liquid. For all she had seen miracles performed by Philosopher's Stones and the merest wave of an alchemist's hand, Riza could not help but wonder at how something so tiny could hold the key to her general's life. She stared up at the cantankerous doctor, unable to put her gratitude and relief into words. Not that she would need to. One glance at Knox's face told her that he understood all too well how she was feeling.

With a gesture of his head, Knox brought the nurse sitting in the corner over to stand by Roy's bedside. Riza started as the woman stood up to move- so involved had she been in Roy's suffering, she had almost forgotten the nurse's existence.

Riza stepped back to let Knox and the nurse administer the antidote, thankful that Roy made no attempt to fight them when they held his arm and slid the needle beneath his skin. Roy gasped as the solution spread through his veins, his eyes clenching shut as his body struggled to adjust to the conflicting sensations battling within it.

"How long will this go on for?" Riza asked. She moved back to stand next to Roy, stroking his hair in an attempt to offer comfort.

Knox shrugged, still watching his patient with a careful eye. "Maybe about twenty minutes, half an hour, for the antidote to take full effect. I'll probably have to administer a few more doses in that time, all according to normal procedure, I assure you. He should be back to normal after that, although I expect he'll be pretty worn out for a while afterwards. The poison had progressed quite far along; I didn't want to say anything at the time, but if our lab guys had been much longer, he'd have been a goner for sure."

Riza shuddered. Of course, she had been aware of the possibility that Roy could die that night, had considered it herself, but to hear it spoken of so plainly...

"Hey, stop worrying so much, Lieutenant," Knox said, laying an awkward hand on her shoulder. "He's going to be fine now, I promise."

Riza nodded, willing herself not to collapse into another shameful bout of crying before the medical personnel. She smiled her thanks as Knox moved to let her sit back by Roy's side, watching as he dismissed the nurse and pulled up a chair of his own next to hers. Knox checked Roy's condition every few minutes, a companionable silence settling over the room. Riza knew that, at some point, sooner rather than later, she would have to get up and call the rest of the team, to set their fears at rest and assure them that their commander would soon be recovered. As terrible as it had been to have to watch every second of Roy's agony, Riza knew it must have been almost as hard for her other team members to be kept so long without any information, knowing that their general could die at any moment. She didn't want to leave Roy, even for the few minutes it would take to make the call, but neither could she be so selfish as to leave the team in the dark.

Murmuring an explanation to Knox, Riza slipped out of the room as quietly as possible, walking with hurried steps to the pay phone at the end of the corridor. The operator was slow to connect her to their office in Central Headquarters and it was a conscious effort to stop herself drumming impatient fingers against the side of the phone box but eventually her call was put through. Havoc picked up on the first ring.

"Riz- um, I mean, Lieutenant? Is that you? What's going on? Is the boss alright?"

"Yes, Jean, he is." She was crying once again and she was sure Havoc could hear it in her voice. But, suddenly, it didn't seem so important. Only one thing mattered now. "Roy's going to be okay, Jean. Everything's going to be okay."

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><p><em>AN: Thank you so much to everyone who left reviews for the last chapter, it really encouraged me to know that people were enjoying the story. If you have time, please leave a review for this chapter, I love hearing everyone's thoughts. _


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Okay, Okay, so I know I promised that this chapter would be finished really soon after the other one... well... it turned out I was overly optimistic about that. Somewhat. Sorry about that! It also turns out that I was wrong yet again about both the length of this chapter and the fact there wouldn't be one after this... but luckily I've finished that too and can post it right away. _

_I want to say thanks to ThousandSunnyLyon... due to me being impatient and wanting this story over and done with I didn't ask her to beta this chapter, but her ideas were really important and helpful when it came to writing it. Also, I don't own FMA. _

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><p>Chris sighed as she leaned back against the cold stone wall. The view from Grumman's balcony really was spectacular but that night she had no patience for it. Her fingers itched to hold a cigarette and she was badly in need of a drink. Still, Chris reminded herself, focus on the positives. Roy was recovering, sleeping off his ordeal in a hospital bed with that Hawkeye girl curled up at his side. Even now, with all danger gone and Roy insensible to the world, Hawkeye would not hear of leaving. That girl really was something special. Truth be told, Chris herself wanted nothing more than to stay with her son, to hear the precious sound of his breathing, proof that he had escaped death's hold once more. Too many times she had watched him walk into the midst of danger, her heart cold with the knowledge that this time he may not return. But never before had she felt that fear so strongly, never had the prospect of her son's death seemed so close to becoming reality. Fate had spared him once again but she couldn't allow herself to feel relief yet. Roy was safe, that much was true, but his would-be assassin was still at large. It was unlikely that he –or she, of course- would make another attempt on Roy's life so soon after the failure of their first but even so, Chris would not rest until she had dealt with whoever had tried to kill her child.<p>

God, she needed a cigarette. She was too old to deal with this kind of stress any more. What had happened to her plans of a peaceful retirement, of gradually disbanding her network of spies and spending the rest of her days as a humble barkeeper? A humble barkeeper who ran several of the most infamous establishments this side of the desert, but nevertheless. Surely that wasn't too much to ask? But when the child that you've raised was Roy Mustang, the infamous Flame Alchemist and the youngest major general for over a century, apparently it was.

A sound caught her attention and she turned to see lieutenant Havoc standing at the door to the balcony. He looked as tired as she felt, his normally cheerful face shadowed with anxiety. Havoc knew as well as she did that the danger wasn't over yet. A good kid, that one. A great deal sharper than he looked and as loyal as any you could ask for. He shot her a weak smile, stepping through the doorway to join her on the terrace.

"Smoke?" He offered, holding aloft a packet of cigarettes.

"Oh, god yes."

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the 'click' of Havoc's lighter and the soft smouldering of their cigarettes being lit. Chris sucked the smoke gratefully into her lungs, watching the tendrils disappear into the darkness as she exhaled. Havoc was the first to break the quiet.

"God, sifting through stacks of tapped phone conversations really gives you a headache. Completely useless, too. So far we've found nothing that could be linked to what happened tonight. What about you? Heard anything yet?"

Chris shrugged, pausing to take another drag before answering. You couldn't rush a good smoke.

"After Knox told me that the poison was put into Roy's wine, I had some of the girls talk to the kitchen staff about it. Turns out the wine was given to them by someone who was supposedly sent by Fuhrer Grumman."

"And they just believed him, without bothering to check at all?" Havoc asked, incredulity clear in his words. "So much for security."

"Well, he did have a note written in Grumman's own handwriting, on his personal stationary." She replied. "And signed with his signature. Everything checked out just fine, apparently."

"Wait a minute, are you saying..." Havoc's voice was a shocked whisper. "Are you saying _Fuhrer Grumman_ had the general poisoned?"

Chris snorted derisively, tipping ash off the edge of the balcony. "Don't be ridiculous, lieutenant. I've known Bertie Grumman since I was younger than you are and let me tell you, he might be a sly old fox but there's not a genuinely bad bone in his body. He's known Roy since he was running around in nappies and he loves that boy like he was his own grandson.

"Think about it, kid," Chris went on, rapping a bright red nail against the side of her head. "You might play the dumb old farm boy with everybody, but I can see you're no idiot. Why would Grumman have Roy killed? He's been openly supporting the kid's political career ever since the Promised Day and it's pretty much common knowledge that he's planning to name him as his successor at the next best opportunity. Why would the Fuhrer go to all that trouble if he wanted Roy dead?"

"I guess he wouldn't." Havoc shrugged, looking suitably abashed. "Who do you reckon did it then? Someone close to the Fuhrer?"

"Unfortunately, that seems the most likely possibility so far," she sighed. "That or some international group hoping to cause trouble that managed to infiltrate security at headquarters. From the way this was organised, we can be sure that Roy was the intended target, but that doesn't necessarily mean it was a personal attack."

Havoc nodded. "He'd be the perfect target for anyone wanting to provoke panic and unrest in Amestris without sending the country into complete turmoil. Breda's been talking with the Fuhrer and some of the generals, telling them what we've found, and a few of them are convinced that this was all a Drachman plot. Or a Cretan one, or Ishvalan, I don't even know." He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, gazing out at the lights of the city below. "If we're not careful this could lead to a major international incident, maybe even another war."

Just as she'd thought, much smarter than he looked. Although she supposed it didn't take a genius to work _that_ one out. Unfortunately, the lieutenant's fears were all too likely to become reality. She herself had heard of talk from some of the more bloodthirsty generals about taking military action against this latest threat against the heart of Amestris. Mostly leftovers from Bradley's regime, who hadn't even liked Roy anyway, but they could still make their voices known.

"Do you reckon the kitchen staff could be in on it?" Havoc's voice broke through her worried thoughts. "Their story seems a little convenient, after all."

"Not possible, I'm afraid," Chris said, shaking her head. "I've had girls working in those kitchens for years now and I trust them absolutely. They'd know if anything like this were going on and they'd put a stop to it straight away."

"What about the messenger? Were your operatives able to recognise him?"

"Unfortunately not." It stung to admit it but her network had found nothing. Perhaps the recent years of peace and security had left them all too complacent but no one had anticipated an attack like this, herself included. In the days of Bradley's regime her girls would have been on high alert for anything out of the ordinary, but these were far different times and in the hustle and bustle of the party celebrations no one had thought anything unusual about a message sent down from a fuhrer known for his little eccentricities.

"A few of the girls remember seeing him, but that's about it. They say he was an ordinary soldier- or, at least," Chris paused, rolling her eyes. "Wearing a soldier's uniform, which as we all know is not always the same thing. He didn't give his name, but his uniform identified him as a private. Unfortunately, the description each of the girls gave could have matched any number of soldiers in Central Headquarters and, with no name, we've really got nothing to go on."

"I guess our best lead is to investigate everyone close to the fuhrer," she went on. "Luckily for us, that's a pretty short list. Bertie doesn't trust many people, I can tell you that. When it comes to military personnel, the list is even shorter. Aside from Roy, there are only five generals out of the whole of the Amestrian high command that he's particularly close to. They're the only ones who'd have any chance of accessing Bertie's personal stationary or forging his handwriting."

Chris turned away from the view, choosing instead to watch Havoc's face as she listed the five names. She could tell from the minute changes in his expression that he was committing each name to memory; a skill that had no doubt been vital in the years spent serving under her son, working in secret to undermine Bradley. Well aware of her scrutiny, Havoc was keeping his face purposefully calm but, for her, it was all too easy to read his surprise and disbelief as the identities of their five top suspects were revealed. Every one of the generals was well known within the Amestrian military, renowned not only for their tactical excellence but also for their reputation as fair and sympathetic leaders, men of generous spirits and great moral fortitude. It was almost impossible to believe that any one of these men could have engineered an attack as cowardly and underhand as the one they had witnessed that night.

Truth be told, Chris was having some trouble accepting it herself. She had come to be acquainted, to a greater or lesser degree, with all of Bertie Grumman's military friends over the years and had never found any of them to be anything other than pleasant company. A bit set in their ways, perhaps, but then, wasn't everyone? But she had examined the details of the attack for hours now, examining them from every possible angle, and this was the only conclusion that seemed at all reasonable. There was always the chance that Roy's poisoning was the action of some as yet unknown terrorist group, of course, but surely any such organisation would have wanted to make themselves heard by now? No, much as she might want to believe otherwise, the facts of the case could not be denied. In the absence of any new evidence, one of those men had to be behind the attempt on her son's life.

* * *

><p>The walls were crowding around him again, in a way they hadn't done in years. Havoc kept his head high as he strode through the corridors of Central Headquarters, very deliberately <em>not<em> glancing behind him as he walked, not looking out for some shadowy pursuer or straining to catch the whispers of imagined conspiracies. The hallways of this building hadn't seemed so threatening since that first fateful transfer to Central after Maes Hughes' death, a whole other lifetime ago now. These last few years he had grown so used to thinking of Headquarters as a place of safety and hope, a place where the dreams they had worked so hard towards finally had a chance of growing into reality. But now the man who had inspired that hope lay unconscious in a hospital bed and the only likely suspects for the attack were within the inner circle of the Fuhrer himself. When the danger lay so close to the heart of their country, how could they know who to trust? It was just like the old days; anyone could be complicit and they could never afford to stop watching their backs. Even if –no, not if, _when_- the poisoner was caught, would they ever be able to return to how things had been? Or would the fragile peace that Roy and Grumman had so carefully built be shattered by this one malicious act?

No, no that couldn't happen. He knew Mustang and, whatever the man had been through that night, Havoc knew he wouldn't let it threaten everything he had worked for. That thought in mind, Havoc let his feet carry him through the halls, his anxiety lessening as every step took him closer to the team's office. Of course, he hadn't had much cause to come here himself in the last few years and he knew that Mustang had long since moved to a much fancier room on the third floor, but he was glad to see that their old centre of operations was still in use. The floorboards were squeaky and the windows let in an awful draft and he'd only really spent a couple of months there before his... injury... but still. There were plenty of memories attached to that room, not all of them bad.

Knowing it would be locked, Havoc knocked on the door. He grinned as he heard Fuery's still-boyish voice call out:

"What's the password?"

Even though he had been with the team since the start, had faced just as many dangers as they all had- if not more- Fuery still managed to retain an almost adolescent sense of gleeful excitement whenever they embarked on covert operations of any kind. Of course, in the long hours before Mustang's safety was guaranteed, when the prospect of their commander's death still hung heavily over their heads, Fuery had been as solemn and anxious as any of them. But now, with the immediate danger gone, he was free to indulge his love of espionage, unashamed to bring the full weight of his expert knowledge from spy novels and films into play.

"Come on, Fuery, no one really bothers with that password nonsense; that only ever happens in books. Let me in, will you?"

"I can't let you in without the password, you could be anyone." Fuery called back. Havoc rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, but I'm not and you _know_ that. You know it's me. Look, this is silly. Breda, will you just let me in?"

A loud, exaggerated sigh issued from behind the door and Havoc grinned as he heard Breda's heavy footsteps making their way towards him. A soft 'click' of the key turning in the lock and the door was open, Breda standing behind it. There were deep shadows under his eyes- this night had taken its toll on all of them- but his face broke into an answering smile at the sight of Havoc.

Breda ushered Havoc into the room, locking the door again as soon as they had crossed the threshold. Paranoia was casting its shadows on them all, it seemed. A mass of equipment lay sprawled over every surface of the office, wires snaking across the floor and dangling from the backs of chairs, pages of near-illegible notes coating every desk, the soft crackle of static and the whirring of tape recorders filling the air.

"So," Havoc asked, leaning back against his own desk, making sure he kept his tone cheerful. "Found anything new?"

Fuery leaned back in his chair, his fingers twisting the wire of the headphones that rested on his desk. "Nothing..." he breathed, barely concealed exasperation in his voice. "We've found absolutely _nothing_ since you left." He leaned back even further, his head tilted back until he was gazing at Havoc upside-down. The attempt to appear relaxed was painfully obvious and belied by the way he continued to wrap the cord of the headphones around his fingers, each twist of the wire pressing harder into his skin.

"Well, I wouldn't quite say _nothing," _Breda remarked. He raised his head from the sheaf of papers he was shuffling through, one eyebrow arched and a wicked grin on his face. "I mean, the transcriptions of Lieutenant Colonel Roberts' phone conversations have been _very_ entertaining. Quite enlightening for young Sergeant Fuery here, too."

The slightest hint of a blush crept onto Fuery's cheeks and Havoc could see him struggle to bite back the retort that, actually, he was almost twenty five, thank-you-very-much, and that he'd had a girlfriend for just under two years now, unlike _some_ people he could mention. It was a rant that had grown to almost Ed-like proportions over the last few years and Havoc probably knew every word of it off by heart now. Fuery snapped his chair back to upright position, directing a mutinous glare in Breda's direction. But he finally let go of the wire and, when he spoke, his voice had lost the edge of anxiety that had been so clear before.

"What about you, Jean? Was your talk with Madame Christmas helpful at all?"

Havoc nodded. "Very, actually. Thanks to her, we might be able to narrow our list of suspects down to just five men. She reckons the assassination attempt was most likely organised by someone close to the fuhrer."

Fuery gasped and Breda looked up once more, his eyes now fixed on Havoc. "That's quite a serious accusation," he murmured. "What evidence does she have to go on?"

Havoc swallowed around the tight knot of unease that had lodged in his throat ever since his conversation with Chris Mustang. He was just as aware as Breda of the gravity of the claim and, away from the Madame's confident, authoritative reasoning, he suddenly felt much less sure of himself. But Chris had been right; it _was_ the only conclusion that matched the facts they had and he needed to remind himself of that.

"The message sent with the courier who brought the poisoned wine was written on the fuhrer's personal stationary, in his own hand," Havoc began. Breda raised his eyebrows again but this time there was no mirth in his expression. "Not to mention that they have motive- either envy over Mustang's favour with Grumman or distrust in Mustang leading to them acting out of a misplaced desire to protect the fuhrer."

"Makes sense," Breda admitted, the corners of his mouth pulling downward in distaste. "So, who are our main suspects? Members of military high command, I'm assuming?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Havoc replied. "According to the Madame, our five main suspects are Major-General Darnell, General Matsudaira, Lieutenant-General Scott, Lieutenant-General Reynolds and General Krieger." His eyes glanced between Breda and Fuery, seeing identical expressions of shock on their faces. He could still scarcely believe it himself, if he was honest.

Breda, at least, seemed to recover from the surprise quite quickly. "Well, I suppose if that's the case then our best plan of action is to focus only on transcripts of all the calls going in and out of their offices. Kain can tap all the generals' personal lines quite easily, too." He glanced over at Fuery who gave a faint nod, still looking slightly stunned. Even in the old days they'd never gone as far as to listen in on high-ranking officers' private calls. Staging a coup, that was one thing, but phone tapping, it seemed, was quite another.

"We can bring in Falman and Armstrong to help us with that," Breda continued, his fingers tapping against the desk as he mapped out his plan. "We should leave the rest of the Investigations team in the field; it's probably not a good idea if too many people know who our main suspects are. Besides, for all we know, it _might_ all have been a plot by some foreign group, we can't rule that out just yet."

It was still possible, of course- but far from likely. No, Havoc thought, Madame Christmas had been right. Whoever was responsible for Roy's poisoning was among the five men who they were closing in on with every move they made. Impersonating the fuhrer's documents had been a major flaw in their plan and Havoc was confident that it was that same arrogance that would lead to their discovery, sooner rather than later.

* * *

><p>Fuery yawned for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last hour, draining the remainder of his coffee with a grimace. The drink had long since gone cold and Breda always added far too much sugar. Although he supposed it was needed at a time like this; they'd been working almost non-stop since they realised General Mustang had been poisoned and it was almost <em>morning<em> now. Not that Fuery resented the work, of course not. The thought of anyone killing Mustang- their friend, their leader, their king in more than just metaphor- was as appalling as it was inconceivable. Fuery was resolved to chase the culprit down, however long it took, and he knew the others all felt the same. Nothing had been said but he could see in their eyes the same shocked disbelief that he himself felt, the same anger and determination to bring the would-be assassin to justice.

Right at that moment, seeking justice involved pouring over transcripts of all of General Krieger's communications, a man Fuery was convinced could never have planned to assassinate Mustang, not with the amount of time he spent flirting with women over the phone. Breda had pointed out that people had thought exactly the same of Mustang for all those years, up until the point where he overthrew the government. But still, Krieger was no Mustang and if he had to read through another page of smarmy compliments and girls' simpering replies Fuery thought his head was likely to explode.

As if on cue, a knock sounded on the door, a light tapping that was far too timid to be Havoc or any of the other team members. Both Breda and Fuery glanced up, silence filling the room as they waited for their unknown visitor to announce themselves.

"Who is it?" Breda called out when no reply seemed imminent. His tone betrayed no hint of caution, but Fuery could tell he was suspicious. They were all on edge tonight.

The voice that answered was instantly recognisable. "My name's Janet, I-I'm a maid in the kitchens downstairs. I was hoping to talk to Kain Fuery. I-it's about what happened tonight... I think I might have some information that would be helpful."

Breda looked over at Fuery, his eyebrows raised. Truth be told, Fuery was just as surprised as he was. The shy, diffident girl he'd dated a few years ago, now suddenly coming forth as a witness to an attempted assassination? It didn't seem possible. True, Janet was on the kitchen staff downstairs so she _could _have seen something, but it was still strange. Breda gestured to the door, his impatience clear, and Fuery hurried to open it. Excitement bubbled up inside him at the thought that they might finally have a lead of some kind, a clue to help them unravel the tangled maze of circumspection and suspicion that that case had become.

Janet hadn't changed much since he'd last seen her, almost a year ago now. She was still wearing her maid's uniform from earlier that evening- of course she was, Fuery remembered, none of the kitchen staff had been allowed to leave- and it was hard not to notice the dark shadows under her eyes or the slight trembling of her hands, clasped together so tightly her knuckles had turned white. Whatever information she had, it was clearly costing her a lot to tell it to him. He led her into the room, resting his hand on her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner. Even without hearing what Janet had to reveal there was one thing Fuery could be sure of; she was not here to confess to a part in the poisoning. He had known her for a long time and she was simply not capable of something so malicious.

After clearing away piles of paper from one of the chairs Fuery gestured for Janet to sit down. She did so, her eyes widening as she took in the tangle of wires and equipment covering the floor and the precarious stacks of notes and files balancing on the desks. He had to admit, it did all look rather messy. But then, they'd hardly had time to organise their research, so focused had they been on catching the perpetrator. Of course, back when these kinds of operations had been standard for their team, Fuery had been able to set up and pack away everything he needed in far less time than this, but it seemed that even he had gotten a little lazy in the past few years.

"Thank you for coming to talk to us, Janet," Fuery began, trying his best to make his voice seem as casual as possible. Whatever the circumstances, Janet was a friend and he didn't want it to sound as if he were interrogating her. "What was it you thought we should know?"

"Well... there were some people in the kitchens earlier this evening, not long after General Mustang had been poisoned, talking to all the staff and asking if they'd seen anything and they mentioned..."

Janet broke off as Breda walked around from his desk to stand by Fuery's side. Fuery thought she must feel a little intimidated with the two of them standing over her like that but both of their own chairs were across the room and it would be awkward to move them through all the wires littering the floor. What should he do? Should he try moving his chair anyway, so they'd all be at an equal level? Or should Janet be standing too? But she looked as if she needed to sit down... Fuery had never imagined he'd need to worry about such things. The general would have known what to do, Fuery thought with a touch of desperation, but- of course- it was because of his absence that they were in the situation in the first place.

Breda met Janet's gaze, his expression calm and patient as he motioned for her to continue. After a moment, she did so, her voice stronger than before.

"They mentioned that the wine that had poisoned the general had been delivered by a soldier, someone low-ranking; they said they'd been told so by someone from the kitchen staff. They said he probably wasn't in trouble but they needed to talk to him as a witness." Janet paused, looking down at her hands and taking a deep breath before starting to speak again.

"I didn't want to say anything at the time because I was afraid... but I know the soldier they were talking about."

Fuery's breath caught in his throat at her words and it took all his self control not to rush over to Janet and demand that she tell them the name that instant. He looked over at Breda and saw the same excitement on his face, the same impatience to discover the last, elusive piece that they needed to solve the puzzle.

"His name's William... William Marshal; he's my cousin," Janet went on. "He's a private in Lieutenant Grenville's company. I remember when he came in to deliver the wine; he was really excited because he said some big-shot general had trusted him to deliver a package from the Fuhrer himself." Her voice quickened and she began to twist her fingers together as she spoke.

"William's not going to get in trouble for this, is he? I've known him all my life and he's a good man, Kain, he would never have done anything like this if he'd know what was going to happen, I'm sure of it. He'd have come forward himself, I know he would have, but he got reassigned just a few days ago you see; I don't know why..."

Fuery knelt down besides her, holding up a hand to stop the rapid flow of words. He looked into her eyes as he spoke, trying his best not to notice the tears that had welled up inside them. "Don't worry, Janet; if he really acted without knowing what he was doing then your cousin's not going to get into any trouble, I promise. Once we've arrested whoever's behind this then we'll need to talk to William as a witness and check that his story adds up, but from what you've told us, it seems he'll be fine. He might even get transferred back to Central, if he'd like."

If he really was innocent, of course, Fuery thought to himself. But even without any proof, Fuery found himself believing Janet's heartfelt assertion. It was just the kind of dirty trick that would be pulled by anyone who would stoop so low as to use poison; implementing an innocent man in the crime and ruining his career in the process, if what Janet had said about a transferral was anything to go by. Sending the soldier away had been a clever move though, Fuery had to admit that. Without his testimony it would be impossible to know who was behind the attack and knowing the state of the military's records, it could take weeks to track him down. Unless...

Fuery glanced at Breda, seeing his own question reflected in his friend's eyes. If Private Marshall had talked to Janet about the delivery... it wasn't too much to assume...

"Janet," Fuery spoke softly, trying not to let his tone betray the urgency of his question. "Did your cousin mention the name of the general who gave him the wine? Do you remember who it was?"

For a long moment she sat very still, her head down and her long hair hiding her face. Fuery imagined her eyes were closed; she often did that, he knew, when she was trying to remember something. "He did mention a name..." she began, her voice halting, almost a whisper. "I didn't pay much attention at the time but I knew I'd heard the name before. It was a lieutenant general, I'm sure of it... William's captain was under his command. He was one of the older generals, I think... oh, what was his name?" Janet muttered, almost to herself. She fell silent again before looking up suddenly, her eyes meeting Fuery's. When she spoke again, all traces of uncertainty were gone from her voice.

"I remember now," She said. "It was a lieutenant general, as I thought. Lieutenant General Reynolds."

* * *

><p>"Oh, General Reynolds. I was hoping I'd find you here, sir." Havoc shut the door behind him, moving over to the table where the general was sitting, his eyes downcast and his arms crossed over his chest. Reynolds was alone in the large meeting room, the latest meeting of the evening having finished over ten minutes ago when Fuhrer Grumman had announced his intentions to pay a personal visit to the hospital to see how his youngest general was recovering. "Do you mind if I sit down?"<p>

Reynolds looked up at that, his expression sombre. An indication of his guilt, possibly? All of the other members of High Command that Havoc had seen had appeared overjoyed to hear that Mustang was going to live. Reynolds wore a face that looked as if all his hopes had been crushed. Still, Havoc reminded himself, there was no need to get ahead of himself. However likely it might seem at this point, they needed proof that Reynolds was the poisoner before they could act. He sat down in the chair next to the general's, shifting a little as the pistol hidden in his jacket dug into his side. It'd been years since he'd last carried a gun but it wasn't something that was easy to forget. Havoc hoped there wasn't going to be need for it, although he suspected that was mostly wishful thinking. Reynolds didn't seem the type to go down without a struggle.

"My name's Jean Havoc," he started, keeping up his friendly tone. It wouldn't do for the general to get suspicious. "I'm a retired lieutenant, a former member of General Mustang's team." Reynolds' eyes narrowed at that, just slightly, before relaxing once more. As Havoc watched, the general's face contorted into an expression of friendly concern, a smile finding its way onto his lips from somewhere as he leant forward, his arms uncrossed, his hands resting on the table, the very picture of openness and sincerity. If he was indeed guilty- and Havoc found no reason to believe that he was not- then he was an impressive actor.

"Ah yes, I believe I've heard Mustang talk about you once or twice. What is it I can do to help, Mr Havoc?"

Was it just Havoc's imagination, or had Reynolds put a slight emphasis on the title? As if it was a subtle reminder of Havoc's civilian status, his lack of standing within the walls of Headquarters. If that was his intention, he was wasting his time. Those tactics weren't going to work on Jean Havoc. As silently as possible, Havoc slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and switched on the miniature tape recorder Fuery had given him. The young man had assured him it would work perfectly, despite its size. Havoc just hoped he was right; even if the plan succeeded and he was able to trick Reynolds into admitting his crimes the confession would be useless without evidence.

"Well, General Reynolds, as I'm sure you're aware, we're currently conducting an investigation into who could be responsible for the attempted assassination of General Mustang." Of course he was aware, Havoc thought, he'd been stuck in meetings discussing that very question for hours now. Hopefully the strain of having to lie so many times already would have left the general feeling uneasy, vulnerable to Havoc's questioning. There was only so long one man could keep up a perfect facade. "We thought it might be useful to talk with you as you were sitting next to the general when he was poisoned and you were the first person to notice his symptoms." All a little too convenient, of course. Havoc had been watching closely at the time, from across the table, and what he'd thought had been kind gestures on the older general's behalf now took on a far more sinister air. He'd seen the way Reynolds had faked concern at Mustang's signs of illness, offering meaningless words of comfort while hurrying to assure the worried onlookers that Mustang was fine, suffering from nothing more than a momentary spell of dizziness. Reynolds had lied with a smile on his face and sincerity in his eyes, all the while knowing that his words were sending a man to his death; the death he himself had arranged. The thought disgusted Havoc.

"We were wondering if General Mustang might have mentioned anything to you that could help us in the investigation." Havoc continued, watching Reynolds' face closely.

"Such as what, exactly?" the general asked, still smiling pleasantly. "I'm afraid I can't remember General Mustang saying anything that could be considered relevant. Could you be more specific?"

"When exactly did the general first tell you he was feeling unwell, for instance?" Havoc asked. "Or did he mention that anything was worrying him; perhaps he'd seen someone who looked suspicious earlier that evening?" Of course, whatever Reynolds told him would most likely be lies concocted to save his own skin but Havoc was hopeful that his questioning would succeed in unsettling the man, at least a little. And of course, if it turned out that their suspicions were wrong and General Reynolds was innocent then any information he could give them would be useful.

"The first I knew of it was only moments before he had to leave." Reynolds replied. His demeanour did not change at all but Havoc thought he could detect a hint of tension in the old general's voice. Perhaps their plans to catch Reynolds out would have some success after all. "It all came on so suddenly; Mustang seemed quiet for most of the dinner, that's true, but I didn't think too much of it. It was only when I asked him about it outright that he admitted he was feeling ill."

"I see, Havoc replied. An idea gripped him, a way, possibly, that he could catch the general out. The man had been lying for nearly seven hours straight, he had to slip up sometime...

"The reason I'm asking you these questions, General, is that while the doctors have succeeded in identifying _which_ poison General Mustang had been given, they were unable to discover how, precisely, the poison was administered." Havoc had never been a particularly accomplished liar in his youth but years of working under Mustang had enabled him to learn from the best. His blue eyes gazed guilelessly into Reynolds' narrowed browns; a textbook image of honesty. The general was highly intelligent, that was true, but he made no secret of the fact that he was not a man of science. Havoc could only hope Reynolds' knowledge was so lacking he would not think to question the lies laid out before him. "Obviously, this information would be invaluable in discovering the identity of the poisoner, which is why we need your help. Sir."

This time there was no mistaking the tension in Reynolds' voice. "Yes?" he asked, his arms crossing once more over his chest. The old general sat up straighter in his chair, almost eye level to Havoc. His facade of pleasantry had not yet shattered completely, but the cracks were plain to see. "How, exactly, can I be of help, Mr Havoc? What other questions would you like to ask me?"

"Well, Sir, if we knew at roughly what point General Mustang started to become ill, we would have a much better chance of deducing how he had been poisoned. If it came on as suddenly as you said, then it's likely he was poisoned by something from the dinner, most likely in the food or in his wine..."

Reynolds' held up a hand, cutting Havoc off. "Now hold on there, let's not go jumping to conclusions," he said, his words coming a little too quickly in Havoc's opinion. "It's true that the symptoms only started to show halfway through dinner, but, as I said, Mustang had been quiet all evening, even before we started eating. Unusually so, you could say. It didn't occur to me at the time, but it seems quite possible now that his mood was an early symptom of the poison."

Havoc leaned forward, struggling to keep a very Mustang-esque smirk off his face. Was Reynolds really going to fall for it? "So... you're saying that it's likely General Mustang was poisoned _before_ sitting down to eat, General? In your opinion, at least."

Reynolds nodded. "Very likely, I'd say. He definitely didn't seem well even before the start of the meal." _I've got you now_... Havoc thought. The doctors were certain that the poison had been delivered through Mustang's wine, the wine he'd only started drinking about halfway through the first course of the dinner. Havoc himself had spoken to Mustang only moments before taking his seat at the table and had noticed none of the ill-effects Reynolds had described. Of course, it hardly counted as binding proof- the old general could always claim he'd simply made an honest mistake- but for Havoc it was easily enough to cement the man's guilt in his eyes.

Unaware of what he had just done, Reynolds continued to speak, seeming to warm to his story. "I did wonder why he seemed so out of sorts, but I just assumed he was unhappy about something and so didn't say anything about it. After all, the man does have a reputation of being rather highly strung."

Despite his best efforts, Havoc's disapproval must have shown on his face for the general's demeanour changed instantly, his hands going up in a disarming gesture and that pleasant smile returning to his face once more. "I mean no offence, of course. Mustang is an incredibly talented general and a valuable asset to this country's military. The government owes him a great amount for his role in protecting Amestris during the Promised Day and the overthrow of the old regime." His smile did not reach his eyes and the gaze he turned on Havoc was cold and assessing. "A man who has seen and committed such terrible things as Mustang has... particularly at such a young age... it's hardly surprising that he'd be a little temperamental now and then. I meant nothing by it, Mr Havoc." A short laugh. "I know how protective you people can be of him."

_Yes,_ Havoc thought, _we protect him because he _deserves_ it._ _Something it's clear you'll never understand. _Temperamental?_ When has Mustang ever let his emotions get in the way of his duty to his country? Even when faced with Hughes' murderer, he still managed to stay on the right path. He's a far better man than you'll ever be, _General_ Reynolds... _

"Yeah, well, force of habit, you know..." Havoc laughed. He needed the general to drop his guard, needed him to keep speaking as freely as he had just moments before. Perhaps that way he could gain some understanding of the man's motives, perhaps use his prejudice to manipulate him into confessing his crime. "To tell you the truth, we all worry about the general now and then, too. He can be so unpredictable sometimes... occasionally it's a little scary." The words threatened to stick in his throat but he forced himself to say them. Let Reynolds think that they were on the same side, that he too shared the same concerns for Mustang's state of mind; that the general's ignorant, fear based judgements did not disgust him.

"I'm glad you understand my concerns." Reynolds sighed. "Loyalty to one's commander is an admirable thing but it is also necessary to recognise that a leader is human, too, and may have flaws. I often fear that those who surround Mustang are _too_ loyal, love him too much to ever see how dangerous he really is."

_You're wrong_, Havoc's mind whispered, his anger turning to sorrow at the thought of how much fear Mustang inspired still, how few people truly knew him. He thought of Hawkeye, of what little he knew of what happened between her and Mustang when he faced Envy in the tunnels beneath Central. Reynolds could never understand such fierce devotion, the love that would drive Mustang's closest protector to put a bullet through his skull before she would see him take a single step off the path he had chosen.

The general gave another heavy sigh, his shoulders slumped and his gaze fixed on the table before him. "I know he has Fuhrer Grumman's trust, that they've known each other for many years, but I still can't escape the thought that perhaps it was not wise to have promoted Mustang so high, so quickly. The power he wields... his alchemy... it's so unnatural, so dangerous. Power like that ends up corrupting even the best men. He's already killed so many..."

"You mean during the Ishvalan conflict?" Havoc asked. He did his best to keep his voice even but inside he was seething at the injustice of Reynold's words. "That campaign was authorised by military high command; General Mustang only ever killed when he was ordered to." Havoc knew he should maintain his pretence of sympathy with the general, that defending Mustang was a dangerous move, but he couldn't help it. Havoc had seen only too clearly the way Roy suffered because of his actions in Ishval, the way the war came back to haunt him time and time again. It was something he would never be free of however long he lived and to have this man, this general who had been on the council for the war, had approved the order to send the State Alchemists into Ishval, sit there and condemn Mustang for _his_ own failures... Havoc took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm.

"I recognise that, of course," The general said. "His alchemy helped to win the war far faster than it would otherwise have ended; a commendable result, there's no doubt about it. I just..." Reynolds raised his head at last, his eyes meeting Havoc's. For the first time that night, Havoc saw genuine conviction shining in his gaze. His facade was gone completely, Havoc realised; the general truly believed every word he was speaking. "I can't help but worry the effect that such a violent conflict would have had on Mustang's psyche. Some of the strongest, most honourable soldiers I've known have broken under the weight of guilt. I know that, outwardly, Mustang appears to be fine but I fear that his experiences in the war could have tainted his feelings towards the military in dangerous ways." Reynolds eyes drifted to the far wall, as if seeing visions of his fears brought to life. "His coup against the Bradley administration... while necessary, certainly, and greatly beneficial to the nation... can you truly tell me that it was not motivated by anger towards the military?"

_Perhaps it was,_ Havoc thought. _But not in ways that you could ever understand. And for reasons you could never hope to believe. _But it would have been useless to voice these thoughts to Reynolds. There was only one thing to ask the ageing general now.

"Is that why you had him poisoned?" The words were scarcely more than a whisper yet they seemed to echo against the walls. Reynolds glanced back, shocked. Indignation burned in his eyes, flushing his face a ruby red but his anger soon disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Yes." He spoke so quietly Havoc could hardly hear him, his voice heavy with weariness and defeat. Despite himself, Havoc could not help but feel a slight stirring of pity for the old general, so hopeless and forsaken. "I told myself it was for the good of the country- for the good of the fuhrer. Truth be told, Mustang terrifies me; he always has done, ever since I first saw him as a young major, cutting down the Ishvalans in their thousands. And after he brought down Bradley's regime... who's to say he wouldn't try again with another one?" The general held Havoc's gaze for several moments before, uncomfortable, Havoc turned his eyes away, no longer able to bear the weight of that brutal, unrepentant stare. There was no remorse in Reynold's eyes, Havoc realised, the revelation awakening the embers of his anger once more. He felt absolutely no guilt for what he had done.

"But the fuhrer- your _friend_- cares deeply for General Mustang, loves him almost as if he were his own son. They've known each other for nearly _thirty years_, for God's sake." Havoc forced himself to lower his voice, not to let his anger get the better of him. "How can you think that Mustang would pose a threat to Fuhrer Grumman? And how could you _ever_ think that what you did was for the good of the Fuhrer, that he would be grateful to you?" Havoc just couldn't understand it. After the initial, victorious rush of having secured a confession from Reynolds, he was left with nothing but bewilderment and a sense of betrayal. Reynolds had been one of the finest generals of his generation, a man that every soldier looked up to, Havoc included, once. And now, to hear him confessing to the attempted murder of the greatest man Havoc had ever known, the only man who stood any chance of saving Amestris from itself... it just didn't make any sense.

Reynolds shut his eyes, resting his head in his hands, saying nothing for a long time. But when he raised his head, the resolve had returned to his eyes and he spoke proudly, his chin held high, only the slightest hint of regret colouring his words.

"I never expected Albert to be grateful to me... in fact, I thought it almost certain that he would hate me, if he ever discovered that I was behind the assassination. And seeing him today... the terror on his face all throughout the hours when no one knew if Mustang would live or die... it was incredibly difficult. But even so... I knew I had no choice.

"I'm a soldier. I have been for over thirty years now, and I've always served my country faithfully and unquestioningly. I may not always have agreed with the decisions made by our leaders but I've always followed the rule of law. That's all anyone can do; follow the law that their country has laid out for them, whether it be right or wrong. But Mustang... he took that law into his own hands, changing it as he saw fit, not caring what he destroyed in the process. A man such as that... I could never trust him. And if Albert... that is, Fuhrer Grumman... knew what was best for him, he wouldn't trust Mustang either. And perhaps what I did was wrong- certainly, it turned my stomach to resort to such an underhand method as poisoning- but I don't regret it. My only regret is that I failed."

Havoc sat in stunned silence, his thoughts scattered and his mind a war of conflicting emotions. He had come into the room expecting, in the final confrontation, to rail at the man who had tried to kill Mustang, to call him a coward, a monster; to rejoice that justice would soon be served. Now, looking down at Reynolds, he found he could do none of those things. Havoc could never forgive Reynolds for his attempt to extinguish the life of his general, the man he loved more than the dearest brother, the greatest king. Reynolds' beliefs were wrong, based on nothing but ignorance and fear and nothing he could say could make Havoc doubt the path Mustang had chosen, the path he himself had followed for so many years. Yet against all that his heart told him Havoc found himself- perhaps- beginning to understand. His anger drained away at the sight of the man before him, tired, weighed down by fear and wishing only to protect a friend from a man he saw as a monster. Could he truly say to himself that he would not do his best to protect Mustang from those he saw as a threat, by whatever means necessary?

Reynolds was the first to break the silence, a bitter, resigned smile on his face. "I believe this is the point where you call in the men waiting just outside this door and have me arrested, is it not?"

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><p><em>Yayyy! It's done! Just the epilogue to go now... Drop a review if you have time and thanks for reading. :D<em>


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: The actual last chapter now, finally! As it says at the beginning, this story was written for mebh so I want to say a huge thank you to her for encouraging me so much when I was writing it and for being an amazing friend in general. I wouldn't be writing fanfic at all if it weren't for her, and would undoubtedly be a worse off person in many other ways too. _

_Alright, alright, there's plenty enough sap in this chapter already without me adding more here... so, as usual, I don't own FMA etc etc... enjoy the last chapter! _

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><p>He didn't know where he was. He was laying in a bed, that much he could tell, the rough cotton sheets tucked tightly around his body, holding him in place. Roy blinked his eyes, trying to rid them of the blur of sleep. A flash of golden hair in the corner of his vision caught his attention and he turned to see Riza gazing at him from a chair next to his bed, joy and relief written clearer than ink across her face.<p>

"You're awake; thank goodness." She said, reaching out to take his hand, her warm fingers interlacing with his. "Knox was beginning to worry. We all were, to be honest. You've been asleep for nearly ten hours." Roy stared at her, his expression blank as he struggled to comprehend what she was saying. He had slept for so long? Why? What was going on? Riza looked exhausted, he realised. There were deep shadows under her eyes and her hair was in disarray, as if she too had recently woken from sleeping. But the smile she gave him was bright and joyful, free from all cares, and despite himself, Roy's anxiety began to melt away at the sight of it.

"How are you feeling?" Riza asked, her thumb stroking over the back of his hand, the action gentle and soothing. Roy opened his mouth to reply but his words were lost to a fit of dry, painful coughing. Riza's mouth narrowed in concern and she hurried to pass him a glass of water from the bedside table. Roy drank it slowly, in small, controlled sips, remembering the times spent in Ishval dealing with dehydration. If he drank too quickly he could be sick, and that was one of the last things he needed right now.

When his coughing had stopped and his throat no longer felt as if it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper, Roy returned to contemplating Riza's question. How _was_ he feeling? Sluggish, certainly, and, despite all reason, craving another few hours sleep. His head was pounding, there was an awful taste in his mouth and his stomach felt nauseatingly empty. "Not great..." he replied, all evidence having been taken into consideration. His voice emerged as a croaking whisper, a sounds that he would have found hilarious if it wasn't so painful. "What... happened to me?" He asked. He could remember nothing of how he came to be in the situation and the gaps in his memory were intensely frustrating, not to mention a little frightening. He could remember his birthday dinner... feeling unwell and leaving the table for a while... and then nothing. What had happened in those lost hours? "Did I have food poisoning?" it seemed unlikely and could hardly explain his missing memories but he could think of nothing else. And he did remember being sick after leaving the table, before his memories blurred and faded out altogether.

Riza bit her lip, her face suddenly pale and tightly drawn. She took his hand in both of hers, bringing it up to her lips and placing a gentle kiss on his cold fingers. Roy's eyes widened, confused by her sudden small gesture of intimacy. It wasn't like her to be so openly affectionate in public. Sure, they were alone in the room at that moment, but he was pretty sure by now that they were in a hospital, which meant that anyone could walk in, at any moment.

"No, Roy," Riza began, speaking softly, as if afraid of the impact her words would have. "You... you were poisoned. Atropine, from the belladonna plant. Knox identified it just in time and gave you the antidote. You've been sleeping it off ever since." For a long time Roy just looked at her, unable to form a coherent reply. What Riza had said seemed so unreal, something far too ridiculous to be true. Of course, he knew he had enemies, both inside the military and out of it, but even so...

"Who was it?" he asked. "Who poisoned me?" His disbelief grew even stronger as she told him, her voice hushed and her worried eyes never leaving his face. Roy had always thought of General Reynolds as a good man, a potential ally even. They hadn't always agreed on everything but he'd never imagined that the older general hated him to the point of wanting him dead.

"Why?" He couldn't understand it. The general was a wealthy man, powerful and higher ranking than Roy himself. Why would Reynolds risk all that he had- his job, his reputation, certainly his freedom and maybe even his life- to try and kill him?

"I don't know." Riza looked down at the bed as she spoke, not meeting his eyes. "Havoc was the one who secured the confession, he hasn't told me yet." There was a strange quality to her voice and Roy could tell that she was not quite telling the truth. He didn't like the idea of having information withheld from him but he was too tired to demand his question be answered properly. He would undoubtedly hear the reason many times more than he would care to when Reynolds was put on trial. Reynolds' trial... he groaned out loud at the thought of it. He would have to be a witness, there was no getting out of it, and that meant staying in Central all throughout the long weeks of judicial deliberating and media scandal. And they were meant to be starting the temple restoration project in Ishval's new capital in less than two weeks...

"What's wrong?" Riza asked, her voice alight with worry once more, which disappeared almost instantly when he told her what had been on his mind. "You nearly died and you're worried about _scheduling_?" she laughed. As quickly as it had come, her amusement vanished as the full impact of what she had said hit them both.

"You... you nearly died, Roy..." Riza said, her voice trembling. She moved to sit on the bed, pulling him into a close embrace, her lips brushing his hair as she continued to speak. "I don't have to tell you how terrified I was. After the Promised Day I hoped I'd never have to feel that kind of fear again, that I wouldn't have to see you suffer any more. Over the last few years I came to believe that was possible, that the worst of the danger was over. Last night... last night showed me just how wrong I was." She took a deep breath, holding him even tighter before continuing. "It was so terrible... no one knew what was wrong with you and you were just in so much pain... you didn't even know who I was sometimes..."

Riza paused and Roy could hear her trying to collect herself, to keep control of her emotions. She kissed the crown of his head and, not caring for who may disturb them, Roy shifted so they were eye to eye, kissing her softly on the lips. "But you're alright now." Riza whispered when they broke away, as if she could scarcely believe it, as if she needed to convince herself. "You're alright." She smiled at him suddenly, a playful light in her eyes banishing the gathered shadows. "But..." Riza's smile widened even as her tone grew stern; the voice of the young girl who had scolded him for failing to hang the laundry properly. "Roy Mustang, don't you dare ever try and die on me again. Is that understood?" She kissed him again, letting him wrap his arms around her as they both savoured the precious moment of privacy.

"Yes, Miss Hawkeye. Perfectly." He replied, laughing, running his fingers through her hair. They had so few moments in their lives when they could be truly alone; he was going to enjoy this one as much as he could. And if he had to be poisoned and saved from the brink of death to enjoy it then so be it.

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><p><em>... Yes, I let the epilogue descend into sickly sweet sappiness, what of it? Thanks for reading this, the worst planned out oneshot fic ever (and latest birthday fic ever, sorry mebh!) and I hope you enjoyed it. As always, please drop in a review if you can! <em>


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